In my 6×6-inch Rubbermaid Brilliant Series Tupperware container, once used to house sauces and leftovers, my five-and-three-quarters-year-old daughter Evelyn created a game, stored it in it, using 13 dice with each die having eight sides, and a deck of cards.
“You can be 1, 2, 3, 4—wait, not 4—1, 2, 3, or 5. Yup, five people you can be,” she explains.
“There are four bad guys you can beat.” Buckle up—her rules might make your head spin.
The Queen card has three powers: shield, attack, or become any number on the board.
The Ace is “whatever you want.” Jacks are shields.
10s and 9s are “waste numbers.” If it’s red, you can put it at the bottom of the deck and not use it.
“You win by fighting and changing numbers,” she says. “You have to get the bad guys to zero. If your guy gets to zero—you lose.”
At the start, you roll until you get an 8.
“All good guys start on 8 because it’s the biggest. Bad guys start on 1 because they’re bad. I just like it that way.”
If she runs out of cards, she draws two more—either before her first turn or anytime during the game.
The game is called Dice Attack.
She’s playing now. It’s the bad guys’ turn. She knows what she’s doing—whether I follow or not doesn’t matter. Still, when I glance at her deck, cards stacked in opposite directions, my inner rule-follower’s eye twitches.
She stands proudly, walks to my side, and watches me type; she knows I’m writing about her game.
“Who’s going to read this?” she asks.
She’s back on the bed, sitting toward the headboard with one leg dangling off and the other curled to her chest, rocking like she’s on a spring-mounted playground pony. Rules continue pouring from her mouth—I can’t catch them all. I tell a small white lie (something my grandmother once said was okay) and pretend I wrote one down.
When I give her the five-minute warning for bedtime, she shrugs it off—not because she disagrees with the time limit but because, “I’m not playing with toys.” Playing is emphasized—think eye roll and heavy on the -ING.
This is more serious.
And I believe her. And I tell her so.
At daybreak, I’m in the game’s driver’s seat, she tells me, where I’ll beta test this bad boy for a spin.
Watching her create something out of almost nothing reminds me how unburdened by rules or structure life can be. She isn’t trying to impress—she’s just being. The effortless play feels so far away, in the world of schedules and shoulds. But maybe it’s not gone. Maybe it’s just quieted.
She doesn’t worry about whether her ideas make perfect sense or follow logic—she leads with confidence, sure of the world she’s building. I want some of that. I want to borrow her boldness, her freedom to create and revise on the fly, her certainty that play is the work.
Maybe Dice Attack isn’t just a game—it’s a reminder. That serious joy and rule-breaking invention still live in the same house.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 