So Peter and I were downstairs in the basement last night, playing a few friendly mother-son hands of poker. “Hey Mom,” he said, “isn’t this great? I mean, we’re not watching television…”
“Yeah,” I agree with him and smile.
“…being corrupted by all of those commercials…”
“—”
At least I brought him up with a sense of humor. He said we had to keep playing, though, till one of us was out, so we eventually made one hand a winner–take–all, which he won. He was quite proud of himself.
“Mom,” he told me a few days ago, “you know, I’d think your math skills would be a really big help to you in this game.”
I simply sighed. I didn’t want to have to explain to him that every single one of my mathematical skills told me not to play poker, that all gambling games are set up so that the house always wins, in the end at least.
But the joys of motherhood outweigh the practicalities of the Art of Probability, and even Blaise Pascal (who invented probability, after having been asked by a rather dissolute friend of his some simple questions regarding the likelihood of winning at certain games) would have to give me that one.
Sometimes, I even play darts with him, too. The kid, not Pascal.
white pebble 