Last weekend I finally broke down and did it. After months of begging and pleading, I downloaded Pokémon Go for my son. After all, EVERYONE else already has it. Plus, I had read up about it online and talked to some friends who play with their kids and decided that it’s not your typical video game that would render Buddy Boy a stationery zombie on the coach, his eyes glued to a screen. We could hop on our bikes and ride all over our neighborhood, hunting for wild Pokémon and hatching magical Poke-eggs. Augmented Reality, my husband said it’s called. What doesn’t sound fun about that?
After their first 2-hour hunt, my son came home exhilarated over his catch, jumping up and down to show me all the Pokémon now registered to his Pokedex.
“So…?” I asked my husband. “How was it?”
“It’s actually a lot of fun!” He replied. “And it’s a great way to get a good bike ride in. We rode all over, up some really steep hills, and he just flew right up them.”
We laid down some ground rules about when we could play: weekends only. During the week, he could look at his Pokedex at home, but we wouldn’t be going on any Pokémon hunts on school nights. Last night, while checking his Pokedex and Pokepack, Buddy Boy discovered that he only had 8 Pokeballs left. You’d have thought the world was about to end…
“Can we please go to a Pokestop? Please? What if I run out and a Pokémon comes to our house? Please!”
“We can’t go now, it’s almost bedtime. But I am going downtown for a conference tomorrow and I know there are a lot of Pokestops downtown and at the bus stop, so I will get some more Pokeballs for you tomorrow,” I promised.
So here I am, on the bus, shielding my phone away from the other passengers so that they can’t see that I, a grown and educated woman, is playing Pokémon Go. If anyone asks, it’s for my son. But, if they ask again, I might admit that I’m having fun.
Oh, got to go! A wild Swinub just appeared!