Mr. Remoto, and Mr. Remoto, Jr.

My son wants to hold the remote. And use it.

He always has. Before he could walk or even crawl he would fling himself in the direction of the remote. He'd roll, he'd reach, he'd grab blankets and pull himself toward the remote. He wanted that remote in his hands.

The new King of the Remote!

He still does. He seeks out the remote. If he's being quiet, it's probably because he's snuck off to the other room, found the remote, and is watching his favorite shows. (He's our youngest, but he works the remote better than any of his older siblings.) We have to hide the remote from him. (In fact, we've hidden one remote so well that none of us no where it is!)

It's genetic. He gets his need for the remote from his father.

Since we've been married, my wife has called me a number of things; some good, some bad. (Mostly good.) Among the names she's had for me is "Mr. Remoto." I believe she thinks of it as an insult, but I consider it a compliment.

I like to hold the remote. I like the feel of it in my hand. I like the power it gives me. Plus, when I'm not holding the remote, I know where it goes. There is a place for the remote, and when it is not being used, the remote should be in that place so that when someone wants to use the remote they will not have to search for it. These are simple rules of the remote, but the wife and kids don't always adhere to these rules. They will often just drop the remote the last place they had it instead of putting it where it is supposed to go. This is one more reason why I like to control the remote.

Another reason is volume. As I get older (I'm not forty-ten anymore) I find that I need to have the volume up just a little bit louder than the younger people who live in the house. (Often I have to have it louder because of the younger people who live in the house!)

I think my fondness for remotes might stem from my youth. We didn't have a remote controlled television in our house. If we wanted to change the channel, someone would have to get up out of their chair and walk all the way across the room to the television and turn a dial on the front of the console. (Yes, I said "console." It's a word, look it up.) Would my Dad get out of his chair to change the channel? No. Would my Mom? No. Would my older sister, or older brother? Not if I was there. As the youngest in the family, I became a living, breathing Human Remote. I would be the one to get up, walk across the room, and crank that knob.

A picture of me in my early days as the Living Remote.

Yes, I became Mr. Remoto the moment I was old enough to walk across the room and strong enough to turn that dial! And now, my son wants to follow in my footsteps. But, he'll have to wait; I'm not ready to put that remote down quite yet.


Edited from a post originally published on 4/4/2017.