May 14: Baby vs remote
My son is one year old. He is fussy about what he plays with. When he is at my place, his toys must have the following traits:
- It must be black
- It must be made of plastic
- It must serve a purpose
There are only two plastic black things in my bedroom. One is the telephone, one is the remote control.
My son only wants to play with the phone long enough for him to take it off its receiver. Once it's disconnected, he will throw it on the floor (or, preferably, hide it under my bed.) He will only play with again when I put the phone back on its receiver and then leave the room. He only wants to disconnect it when I am not there.
So now that the phone is off the hook, he wants to play with the remote control. His favourite time to play with the remote control is when I am watching DVDs. Just yesterday, I was watching a magic instructional DVD by the UK magician, Mark Shortland, who Heather should hire for Victoria's next birthday party (this is assuming that Mark does kid shows.) Anyway, I was watching Mark explain how he does his fantastic Finger Mouse routine and then my son pressed a button on the remote and I was suddenly watching Rita MacNeil sing Danny Boy.
"No," I scolded my son, who looked confused and hurt. I plucked the remote from his hands and he reacted the exact same way he would have if I'd just lit his feet on fire.
Soon the people in the apartment next to me began pounding on the wall, demanding that I shut my kid up. It quickly became evident that my kid considered possession of the remote to be the most important thing in the entire universe. So I switched the TV back to Mr. Shortland's explanation and then I lay down to watch it some more and about five seconds later the TV stopped showing Mark Shortland and it started showing a woman squirting blue liquid into a toilet.
After the woman had squirted enough blue liquid into the toilet, she flushed it and the camera showed something that looked like blueberry Kool-Aid spiraling down the john. I looked at my son, who said "oh oh" because that's pretty much all he ever says except "ba-ba" (which means bottle) and "choo choo" (which means I want to watch Choo Choo Soul on the iPad again.)
As the woman on TV told me that Super Shit Destroying Bowl Blaster will kill 99 per cent of harmful bathroom bacteria, I scolded my son again and I whisked the remote away from him.
Then I had an idea. It was an evil idea, like the idea the Grinch had that fateful Christmas Eve in Whoville.
In my office, I have an old remote from an old computer. It's never been used so it's very very shiny and it has a lot more buttons than the one for my TV/DVD player. So up I jump and I run into the office and I grab the new shiny remote and I hand this to my kid (who is crying because he is no longer in possession of the original remote) and then I switch back to Mark Shortland, who, by this time, is explaining how to do his bullet catch routine.
Thirty seconds later, my son whacks me across the face with the computer remote. I look at him. He screams. He makes a plaintive grab for the real remote. I look in his eyes and I see that the remote is more important to him than watching his dad take the gold medal at FISM.*
It occurs to me that my son likes the TV remote because it actually does stuff. He has figured out that if he presses certain buttons, the TV screen will turn blue or a DVD will eject or my settings will get so messed up that I have to call in a tech support team from Japan.
I hand it over and before I can find out how Mark Shorland manages to catch the bullet in his mouth, my son presses another button and then I am watching Tyne Daly get arrested in an old episode of Columbo.
Son of Shteevie: 1. Shteevie: 0.
* FISM -Fédération Internationale des Sociétés Magiques
- It must be black
- It must be made of plastic
- It must serve a purpose
There are only two plastic black things in my bedroom. One is the telephone, one is the remote control.
My son only wants to play with the phone long enough for him to take it off its receiver. Once it's disconnected, he will throw it on the floor (or, preferably, hide it under my bed.) He will only play with again when I put the phone back on its receiver and then leave the room. He only wants to disconnect it when I am not there.
So now that the phone is off the hook, he wants to play with the remote control. His favourite time to play with the remote control is when I am watching DVDs. Just yesterday, I was watching a magic instructional DVD by the UK magician, Mark Shortland, who Heather should hire for Victoria's next birthday party (this is assuming that Mark does kid shows.) Anyway, I was watching Mark explain how he does his fantastic Finger Mouse routine and then my son pressed a button on the remote and I was suddenly watching Rita MacNeil sing Danny Boy.
Danny Boy!!! Don't be coy! Be like me and get your own show on the CBC.
"No," I scolded my son, who looked confused and hurt. I plucked the remote from his hands and he reacted the exact same way he would have if I'd just lit his feet on fire.
Soon the people in the apartment next to me began pounding on the wall, demanding that I shut my kid up. It quickly became evident that my kid considered possession of the remote to be the most important thing in the entire universe. So I switched the TV back to Mr. Shortland's explanation and then I lay down to watch it some more and about five seconds later the TV stopped showing Mark Shortland and it started showing a woman squirting blue liquid into a toilet.
They'll never know I had tacos last night after a few squirts of this bad boy
After the woman had squirted enough blue liquid into the toilet, she flushed it and the camera showed something that looked like blueberry Kool-Aid spiraling down the john. I looked at my son, who said "oh oh" because that's pretty much all he ever says except "ba-ba" (which means bottle) and "choo choo" (which means I want to watch Choo Choo Soul on the iPad again.)
Okay,
son. I'll watch Choo Choo Soul with you. I'm probably watching it for a
completely different reason than you are. You'll understand when you're
13.
As the woman on TV told me that Super Shit Destroying Bowl Blaster will kill 99 per cent of harmful bathroom bacteria, I scolded my son again and I whisked the remote away from him.
Then I had an idea. It was an evil idea, like the idea the Grinch had that fateful Christmas Eve in Whoville.
In my office, I have an old remote from an old computer. It's never been used so it's very very shiny and it has a lot more buttons than the one for my TV/DVD player. So up I jump and I run into the office and I grab the new shiny remote and I hand this to my kid (who is crying because he is no longer in possession of the original remote) and then I switch back to Mark Shortland, who, by this time, is explaining how to do his bullet catch routine.
Thirty seconds later, my son whacks me across the face with the computer remote. I look at him. He screams. He makes a plaintive grab for the real remote. I look in his eyes and I see that the remote is more important to him than watching his dad take the gold medal at FISM.*
It occurs to me that my son likes the TV remote because it actually does stuff. He has figured out that if he presses certain buttons, the TV screen will turn blue or a DVD will eject or my settings will get so messed up that I have to call in a tech support team from Japan.
I hand it over and before I can find out how Mark Shorland manages to catch the bullet in his mouth, my son presses another button and then I am watching Tyne Daly get arrested in an old episode of Columbo.
Son of Shteevie: 1. Shteevie: 0.
What's black and white and brown, has two boobs and three eyes?
* FISM -Fédération Internationale des Sociétés Magiques
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