Daddy and Papa wake up during a Saturday morning getaway — with the kids — to watch the most competitive French Open final on the women’s side in years. The TV is not high definition. It barely has any definition. Without much exaggeration, neither the ball nor the score is visible from more than three feet away from the screen.
C (after one point): Daddy, who just won that point?
C: Oh. (Pause.) Who just won *that* point, Daddy?
C: Oh. (Pause.) Hey, Daddy who just won that point?
D (gritting teeth): Simona Halep.
C: Sharapova did?
D: No, Halep did.
C: Oh. (Pause.) Daddy, who just won that point?
Fisher tries to navigate the remote for the second TV: Papa, how do you change the channel? I want to watch Spiderman! Where is Spiderman? This isn’t working. Papa… Last night’s dinner roils. Strangers’ voices waft in through thin walls.
C: Daddy? Daddy? Who just won that point?
Every age has been great, but, just for the final half hour, it would have been nice to shove a bottle (or two) in a mouth (or two).