They spent last week at our house while their parents went away for a business convention. That means we were inundated with all the “guy” things that turn the cranks of little men. They each have this little game thing called a DS that they could be glued to for hours if not ordered to turn it off. I’m told they play games on them and apparently there’s some sharing of information involved since each one has a profile. Jack is nine years old and he has a profile? Please!
But the thing that caused the most angst, the most intense battles, the most tears and stamping of feet, was…you guessed it…the remote. I mean the remote control for the TV. I know there has to be something God puts into the genes of little boys right before they’re born that makes their hands itch and burn and long for the feel of that hard plastic that will change channels, raise volume and make selections from On Demand. How else would they get this great need if it were not inbred?
And once he comes into possession of this electronic power, a little dude is loathe to let it go. Andrew would sit and tap it on his knee while watching a program, as if just the possession was necessary to insure a good viewing experience. And it remained stuck to his palm as he moved from room to room. Eventually, in some far part of the house, he would put it down to pursue some new activity.
Which caused the adults in the house to bellow “WHERE’S THE REMOTE?”
I don’t understand what caused anyone to think it was necessary to improve on the perfectly reliable action of walking across the room to the set and turning a little knob.
It must have been a man.