I am a comparatively new addict to sudoku. Some years ago, when people began to fall victim by the dozens, I observed them -- hunched over, nervously scribbling, howling at the occasional blunder they made, necessitating minutes of revision -- and I felt absolutely no desire to join them. I have a household to run, manuscripts to write, a garden to weed! I've managed to cut out time-wasting activities like ironing and T.V. What could be stupider than wasting my precious time on puzzles? Besides, I'm math challenged and for all the assurances that sudoku had nothing to do with math, it still looked like math to me. From time to time, I might attempt the odd crossword puzzle, but fiddling with numbers hardly sounded like quality recreation.
And, of course, the inevitable occurred: one day last year I was stuck in a parking lot on a rainy day. Tired of people-watching, I picked up the only thing of interest in the car: my husband's sudoku book. And another addict joined the club.
Most of the time, I manage to keep my habit under control. I set myself a strict regimen: one puzzle after the breakfast dishes, another puzzle after I hang the laundry out. Vacuum the floor, rewrite a chapter of whatever manuscript I'm tussling with, then another puzzle -- and so on. But lately I've been slipping. I've come to an impasse in the manuscript I'm working on and as I mull over the issue of whether to get rid of a few characters who do little to advance the plot, I've taken to going over my sudoku limit. In no time at all I managed to fill up the book I got as a stocking stuffer last Christmas.
I've developed all sorts of ways to rationalize my habit: logic doesn't come easily to me, so this stretches and exercises my ageing brain. Plus, I'm not really to blame for this: my youngest daughter has unwittingly enabled me by leaving her book lying around despite constant nagging. Is it my fault if she tempts me like this at such a weak moment? Besides, she seemed to have abandoned the book after only doing a few puzzles.
So over the past few weeks, very gradually, I've been filling up her book. And because sudoku, like writing, is largely a singular pastime, I almost never talk about it. The other day, she caught me at it: "Hey, that's MY book!" she squealed, pointing.
"Sorry!" I said smugly. "I told you to put it away, though." I glanced down at my work proudly: I've gotten up to puzzle 31 and only had to check the key half a dozen times!
My daughter leaned forward, frowning, then her face relaxed. "Oh, that's okay. I thought you'd done the hard ones."
Now it was my turn to frown. "What do you mean, 'the hard ones?'" I'd sweated blood over those puzzles!
She took the book from me and flipped through it. It goes up to Puzzle Number 250, and except for a few of the first ones, there are dozens of blank pages up until puzzle 80 or so. After that, I suddenly noticed, almost all the puzzles have been done. Slowly, horribly, the truth dawned.
"They get harder," she said simply.
How could I not have noticed? I've been doing the baby puzzles. The ones she got bored with.
"Some of these were pretty hard," I blustered, pointing. "The 4s in this one were devilish -- it took me ages to work them out!"
She nodded a little too quickly.
Almost sixteen years ago, she was a squalling, red-faced lump with a fierce air and buggy eyes, a cross between a lizard and a bulldog. Back then, I was her life support system. I fed, bathed, cuddled, nursed, and entertained her. She had a temper too: I put up with tantrums so sweatily violent, so head-bangingly wild and prolonged, that I can't even bear to describe them. I look at her now: generally sweet-tempered, willowy, and beautiful, and I'm amazed at her transformation -- and as head over heels in love with her as I was back then. None of which makes it any easier to accept the sad truth: My baby is smarter than I am.
Happy Birthday, Youngest Daughter. I love you infinitely -- more than all the china soup spoons you break or the cell phones and passports you lose. More than all the clothes and shoes you borrow from me without a by-your-leave. More than my own fat ego. More than you'll ever know.
Now go put your damn book away.
