Spell check.

Born with a competitive spirit, I unfortunately lacked the competitive body needed for sports. Undeterred, I turned to another form of competition to channel my “hate-to-lose” attitude.

Use your brain, my dad always said.

My family will tell you I refuse to admit defeat — especially in the most heated of battles. Tempers will flare, voices will be raised and losers will whimper. 

Just don’t cry on the Scrabble board.

Games — checkers, Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, Sorry, Phase 10, Yahtzee — are my battlefield.

Scrabble has always been my favorite game. How favorite, you ask? When I was in labor — 25 hours worth — the doctor suggested my husband and I hang out at home in the early stages.

“Do something to kill the time and take our mind off things,” he instructed.

It was our first experience with childbirth and my husband and I reverted to the familiar pastime that had occupied many idle hours “pre-children” — Scrabble.

My husband will admit he rarely won. I was a rabid player — and he didn’t want to upset the pregnant lady by beating me.

The day our daughter was born, he had the edge and he won a couple games between contractions. It remains a point of pride for me that he didn’t win them all.

Even while engaged in Lamaze breathing, I knew how to make the most of a Q with a triple word score.

As my children have grown, I’ve tried to teach them to play. As their vocabulary has grown, they’ve become formidable opponents. Recently it’s been my youngest’s turn to challenge the family champ. I have to say he’s inventive and sneakily selfish in his strategy. In our latest series of games, we’re split two games a piece. He’s a clever one, that boy.

My older son was playing a game with me one lazy Sunday afternoon when his girlfriend called. He explained he was in the middle of heated game of Scrabble, trying in vain to beat his mother. She’d heard of Scrabble, the young girl said, but she’d never played.

“Never played!” I said, shocked. “How can that be?”

Without missing a beat, I told my son he had a moral obligation to share Scrabble with the young lady. She had to know the joy of Scrabble.

His look suggested I’d gone a little bit overboard.

She can spell, can’t she?

“Son, please tell me that she’s a good speller,” I pleaded. “We can’t have you associating with someone who doesn’t know how to use her letters.”

Knowing my tendency to go overreact, my son smiled at me and assured me the girl could spell — and read and do long division. He liked smart girls — like his mom, he assured me. He’s a charmer, that boy.

That said he tried to slip an illegal word by me but I caught him. Not so fast, bucko. There’s no E in w-h-a-c-k-y.