Why I Handed My 4-Year-Old a Retro Console Instead of Fortnite (And Now He Won’t Let Me Stop Playing)

Alright, set the scene: my four-year-old’s got that wild-eyed look—like he just found buried treasure—halfway through a round of Super Mario Bros. He turns to me, dead serious, and goes, “Can I have my own Nintendo?” And bam, that’s when I realized I’d created a tiny gamer in my own image. Some parents are out here wringing their hands over screen time. Me? I’m raising a kid who thinks Goombas are public enemy number one.

Retro vs. Fortnite: Are You Kidding Me?

Everywhere I go, kids are glued to Fortnite, screaming into mics and busting out dances I can barely name. Fortnite is like a toddler hopped up on Pixy Stix—loud, messy, and just… too much for a four-year-old. Retro games, though? Man, they’re straightforward. Simple controls, bright colors, and challenges that actually require a little patience. No “build faster!” panic, just classic hop-n-bop fun.

Honestly, I want my son’s first gaming memories to be him giggling at pixelated turtles, not rage-quitting because some sweaty twelve-year-old just sniped him from across the planet.

Retro Games: The Gateway Drug To Good Gaming

Mario, Contra, Duck Hunt—these games are the real deal for beginners. No battle passes, no loot boxes, no “Dad, can I have your credit card?” nonsense. Just start the game and go. My kid has no idea what DLC even is. Let’s keep it that way for as long as humanly possible, please.

Instead of nagging me for V-Bucks, he’s begging to “beat the turtle guy.” That’s a parenting win if I’ve ever seen one.

Co-Op Couch Time: The Real Magic

The best part? He always wants me in the game. He grabs the controller, points at the screen, and says, “Show me how, Dad!” That’s not just parenting gold—that’s platinum. We’re not zoning out on separate screens. We’re battling through castles together, celebrating every ridiculous death, and somehow, in our house, Contra grenades have officially become “spicy meatballs.” (Don’t ask. Kids are weird.)

Cheap Thrills : The 602 Retro Games Console

Forget dropping a small fortune on a PS5 or some RGB monstrosity of a gaming PC. I grabbed one of those random “602 in 1” retro consoles, plugged it in, and boom—instant arcade. Thousands of games, no worries about strangers yelling at my kid online, and zero set-up stress. It’s parenting on easy mode, honestly.

Losing Like a Champ

You know what Fortnite doesn’t teach? Losing gracefully. My kid gets obliterated in Contra every 15 seconds, but instead of flipping out, he just shouts, “Do it again!” and jumps right back in. That’s the sweet spot. He’s not obsessed with winning—he’s here for the laughs, the chaos, and hanging out with me. If that isn’t a life lesson, I don’t know what is.

Passing Down the Controller: A Family Tradition

When I was his age, my dad handed me the controller and let me lose to Bowser a million times. Now it’s my turn to watch my son light up as we play together. Last night, he looked up in the middle of a level and goes, “Dad, I don’t need my own Nintendo. I just wanna play with you.”

Cue me, getting hit with the emotional uppercut. Didn’t see that coming.

The Bottom Line: Mario Wins, Hands Down

So while everyone else is busy flossing and screaming about Fortnite, I’ll be over here, teaching my son the Konami Code and cracking up about spicy meatballs. Gaming isn’t just about screens—it’s about connection. And for my money, retro gaming is where the best memories live.

Game on, little dude. Game on.

Teaching My 4-Year-Old to Game: Genius Move or Horrible Mistake?

Part 2: My Kid, the Button-Mashing Philosopher

 

So picture this: my four-year-old, eyes shimmering with that wild “I’ve discovered fire” look, just hit me with, “Can I get my own Nintendo?”

Honestly, I froze. You know in movies when the hero gets that thousand-yard stare, the orchestra swells, and you can practically see them doing existential math in their head? That was me—stuck mid-game, clutching a controller that’s probably seen more pizza grease than any actual cleaning product.

I mean, on the one hand, this kid just figured out how to jump over a pit in Mario without instantly face-planting. On the other, he now acts like gaming is a constitutional right. I made this monster. I handed him the keys to the Mushroom Kingdom, and now he wants the deed to the castle.

So, naturally, I panicked. Pulled the classic parent stall: “Let’s talk about that later.” Which, let’s be real, is code for “I gotta Google if letting you play Mario at age four will melt your brain.”

But here’s the kicker—he didn’t whine, didn’t flop on the floor, nothing. Just plopped down, grabbed the controller, and goes, “Let’s beat the turtle guy.”

It hit me right then—he wasn’t fiending for screen time. He was hooked on the vibe, the hanging out, the tag-teaming the chaos with me. This was less about pixels, more about partnership.

We dove back in, full turbo. He’d take Mario for a spin through the easy bits, I’d bail him out when things got spicy. We were an absolute unit—father and son, united by questionable plumbing skills and a mutual disregard for Goombas.

Cue plot twist: I fired up Contra. The old-school bullet bonanza that scarred a generation. Handed him the second controller and, in a low-key sacred moment, whispered the Konami Code. “Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start. Magic words, buddy. 30 lives. Boom.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him the keys to the Matrix. And you know what? He held his own. Was he good? Absolutely not. The kid still thinks grenades are “spicy meatballs.” But he didn’t rage, didn’t sulk—just kept grinning, hitting continue, yelling, “Do it again!” after every digital demise.

That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t about the hardware. Or even the games. It was the play. The mayhem. The giggles. The weird, sacred ritual of passing down the controller—just like my dad did for me, letting me lose to Bowser until I could taste defeat in my sleep.

Eventually, we hit pause. He looks up, eyes still on fire, and says, “Dad, I don’t need my own Nintendo.”

I swear, I almost melted right there.

“I just wanna play with you.”

Cue emotional KO. I’m done. Wrecked.

So yeah, teaching a four-year-old to game? Galaxy-brain decision. Zero regrets.

Will I cap his screen time? Duh.
Will I lose it if he asks to stream on Twitch? You bet.
But right now?

We’re a co-op squad.
We’re storming castles.
We’ve got lives to burn.

Game on, little dude. 

Teaching My 4-Year-Old to Game: Genius Move or Horrible Mistake?

Part 1: Press Start to Cry (and Maybe Laugh a Lot)

 

 Alright, so picture this: I’m just chilling, trying to relive my childhood glory days with some classic Contra, and here comes my four-year-old. He’s got those big puppy-dog eyes, probably sticky hands, and that look like he’s about to ask for something.

“Can I try?”

Now, any sensible parent might’ve said, “Sorry, bud, this is one of those hard-as-nails games where even a pixel of a bullet sends you packing. You’re just not ready.” But nope—couldn’t help myself. Handed him the controller like I was passing on the family sword.

 Honestly, I was weirdly proud.

 

Let’s be clear: I wasn’t about to traumatize him with some modern nightmare like Elden Ring. I went with Mario and Contra, thinking “hey, these are old-school, they’ll be a breeze.” Ha! Yeah, no.

Mario? My kid ran straight into the first Goomba. Not once. Not twice. Four times. Like he was on a mission to hug the thing.  
Contra? Apparently, enemy bullets are collectibles now, because he jumped right into every single one. I’m over here, like, “No, bud, dodge the bullets!” And he’s all, “Why are they shooting me? I didn’t even do anything!” You know what? Fair point, kid. Welcome to the ‘80s, where games don’t care about your feelings—just pure chaos.

Then came the questions. So many questions.

    “Why isn’t that guy wearing a shirt?”
    “Why do mushrooms make you big?”
    “Can I shoot Luigi?”

(Luigi’s not even here, but sure, dream big, kid.)

Trying to explain “lives” in a video game to a four-year-old? Good luck. He’d lose one and look at me like I’d told him Santa moved to Mars. Then, out of nowhere:

“If Mario can come back, why can’t Grandma?”

Yeah. I almost unplugged everything and told him we were switching to board games forever.

But honestly? Watching him play was hilarious. He’d run, jump way too early, fall in a pit, and still shout, “I ALMOST MADE IT!” with this huge grin. I mean, the confidence is inspiring. Contra turned into a one-kid demolition derby—he mostly blew up himself, but he loved every second. He laughed so hard, I started laughing too. No one was winning, but it didn’t even matter.

We laughed, high-fived, and trash-talked pixel bosses like we were in some buddy cop movie. It was messy, chaotic, and just pure fun.

Then it happened. He hit me with the big one:

“Can I get my own Nintendo?”

So, did I just start him on the path to gaming greatness? Or am I raising a future sleep-deprived little gremlin who’ll call me “noob” before breakfast? Guess we’ll find out.

Stick around for part two—screen-time debates, existential questions, and how my four-year-old somehow finished Contra’s first level before I’d even had my coffee. This parenting thing is wild, man.

Hustles & Crisps: My Life Between TikToks and Trying to Pay Rent (Series)

My Forex Chart Analyzer Nearly Sent Me to the ER

 Part 3

“Build what you’ll use,” they said. So I did. Now I’m just wondering if I need therapy.” 

The Dream

Let’s rewind a sec.
You know that classic tech advice:
 

"Scratch your own itch. Build for yourself."

Honestly, after years of trading Forex, I figured out my real opponent isn’t the market—it’s me. One day I’m cool as ice, next day I’m yelling at my screen because a candle faked me out like a bad prank.

So, I thought, why not whip up something to take the emotions out of it? Just a chill little Expert Advisor (EA) to scan the chart, highlight trends, flag entries, and lay out take profits—like a buddy who never panics.

Sounds simple, right?

--- 

The Build

I called it ChartAnalyser (hey, at least it’s honest), and my big ideas were:

* Entry alerts, win-rate right there on the chart
* Buy/Sell lines so clear even I can’t mess them up
* Stop loss and take profit markers
* Oh, and reminders for missed trades—because apparently I like to torture myself

I went deep. Days and nights blurred together. At some point, I think I forgot what food was.

After weeks of tinkering, arguing with MT5, and running on pure caffeine—suddenly, it worked.

And for a few sweet hours, I felt like a wizard.

--- 

The Fall

And then—here comes The Trade.

The bot flashes: EURUSD long. Reversal confirmed. Structure broken. Signal’s looking pretty.
 

 “BUY with 78% win rate,” it says, all confident.

So I hit buy.

And… instead of going up, it just dips. And dips. And dips some more.

By the time the third candle dropped, I was sweating bullets. Staring at the screen, trying to Jedi-mind-trick the market. Meanwhile, the bot?

Chill as ever:

 “Hold.”

HOLD? Seriously?
It’s been 14 hours, I’m 42 pips down, and I’m about ready to throw my laptop out the window.

--- 

The Comeback

Then—out of nowhere—the market flips.
Shoots straight up.
Take profit hit. Big green line across my chart like a pat on the back from the universe.

I just leaned back, kind of dazed, but honestly… pretty relieved.

--- 

The Lesson

Building this thing taught me something I didn’t expect:
Turns out, I trust my own panic more than my bot’s logic.
Even with solid data, I’m still hovering over the Close button like it’s a game show buzzer.

The EA wasn’t the weak link.
I was.

All this fancy tech to kill emotions, and I’m still the emotional one in the room.

--- 

So, Was It Worth It?

Oh, 100%.
Here’s what I got:

✅ Front-row seat to my own impulsiveness
✅ Way more respect for rules-based trading
✅ A working EA—even though my laptop sounds like a blender
✅ Proof that I can build cool stuff, even on sketchy Wi-Fi

--- 

What I’d Change If I Could

* Add a panic override button (for me, not the bot)
* Alerts when drawdown gets wild, just to calm me down
* Built-in journaling, because let’s be real, I’ll never do it otherwise
* Maybe a feature where the bot ignores me if I try to mess with a trade mid-run

--- 

If You’re a Trader, Listen Up:

You can’t erase emotions. But you can build stuff to keep your head on straight—even when your instincts are screaming “RUN!”

Trust your data. Or don’t. But if you build your own tools, be ready to get humbled.

Because this bot?
It didn’t just read charts.

It read me.

--- 

Next Week:

Either I’m making a broke-friendly AI content app for African creators, or I’m taking up gardening. Depends how fried my brain gets.