“Your move, James,” I said to my son as we sat on the sofa one night playing a game of chess.

We were surrounded by a gallery of younger spectators. And we both knew from experience that board games in our house, at least those played during waking hours, always have the potential to be terminated without a moment’s notice.

So I unfolded my leg and extended it alongside the board like a thick, hairy velvet rope. A crude attempt at crowd control.

Candyland, Atlantic City, the island of Catan and, in the case of Risk, the entire world, have many times been instantaneously and irrevocably altered by an aggressive or clumsy toddler. Like a massive meteor strike, the suddenness and scope of the destruction make the whole notion of little plastic armies, wooden cities, and miniature paper money — of war, civilization, and capitalism — seem quaint and trivial by comparison.

In part to mitigate the possibility of such a natural disaster, James was recording each move of our game in algebraic notation in a notebook he recently started entitled “James’ Chess Battles, Volume 1.”

Before the advent of recording, our games seemed to go faster. They were friendlier, more natural, and less intense too, like the cheerful, airy conversation amongst good friends at a wedding party.

But then someone turned on a video camera, and the easy smiles and laughs immediately turned to stone faces and somber admonitions. Make time for each other. Never go to bed angry. Discuss your goals. Keep your romance alive. Dream together. Communicate.

Like the recorded wedding advice, these games are now etched indelibly into a medium. No one wants to look like a fool. No one wants to lose.

But newfound intensity aside, I love to observe my children playing games, and by squinting just hard enough at James, it felt as if I could glimpse a tiny slice of his future. As he sat perfectly still, brows furrowed, eyes darting hopefully across the board, mulling his options it wasn't hard to imagine that perhaps someday, with equal intensity, he would stare down problems that, like chess, have enchanted and perplexed mankind for years.

Meanwhile, as if to counterbalance all of James’ focused intensity, my mind, buoyed by my long undefeated streak, ceaselessly wandered. But I hadn't ever even come close to losing a game of chess to any of the kids. I could afford to be sloppy.

There was an overdue electric bill to pay, several still-unanswered voicemails and emails from work to attend to, and a family trip I needed to plan. None of them, in a vacuum, were terribly important, but collectively they represented the unfinished leftovers from a long day of providing for a family.

Then there was the odd experience in the supermarket a couple of days prior. Alison had dispatched me to buy just a few things. One of them — the most critical — was milk. Late that night, as I casually strolled the fluorescent calm of the supermarket, clutching my little grocery list, my mind became caught up in a myriad of other thoughts.

Another list, this one of the more serious loose ends still yet untied in my life, drifted across my mind: Am I doing enough as a father? How about as a husband? Or even as a son?

The shelves became but a blur of brightly colored packages as I wandered the aisles, stopping sporadically, almost involuntarily, to pick off items from my list. All the while, I was mentally entangled in the types of questions that have perplexed fathers for ages. How do I balance work and family? Where do we need to be 20 years from now? How do I get us there?

I didn’t realize my mistake until I was home, unpacking the grocery bags.

As mistakes go forgetting the milk is about as honest as it gets, but, days later, I was still vexed by the experience.

Sitting with James at the chess board I wondered. Why am I always so distracted? Why not just enjoy this game with my son? Still pondering, I continued to robotically move my pieces around the board.

And then suddenly, as if struck by a massive meteor, the world shook violently, forcefully rousting me from my train of thought.

The shock came not from a clumsy toddler, but rather from a focused, opportunistic 11-year-old boy. Without a moment's notice our little world had been instantaneously and irrevocably altered.

“Checkmate, Daddy.”

Paul Fredenberg lives in Ann Arbor with his wife and seven children. He can be reached at psfredenberg@gmail.com.