When The Remote Control Determines Who’s In Charge

This morning my son Conor watched TV from the breakfast room as he ate waffles and fresh strawberries for breakfast. He decides that he doesn’t like the great wisdom Spongebob is imparting to Patrick, so he asks me to please change the channel for him.

I look up from the kitchen sink and stare at this slim, rooster-hair child and I see my dad. Not just because he’s inherited certain physical features, and that twinkle in the eye when he smiles. I realize he’s also inherited his grandfather’s ingenuity.

When I was young, TV programing offered shows from only three networks. To change the channel, you had to actually get up from where you were sitting, walk up to the TV and turn the circular dial. There was no remote control — until my dad invented it — and it looked a lot like me.

In the evenings, my dad would lie on the couch after dinner and watch TV. He was your typical modern-day male, channel surfer. He’d stretch his feet over the couch and put his hands behind his head. From my bedroom I could hear him calling me in a pleading voice. I’d roll my eyes and try to ignore him in an attempt to stall the inevitable.

“Edie”

Silence.

“Edie”

More silence.

“Edieeee.”

“Mande?” (Yes?)

“Ven” (come here)

“What for?”

“Ven aqui.” (Come her)

“Para que?” (What for?)

“Just come here, please.”

I knew that if I continued my questioning his next reply would be; “Porque soy to padre.” (“Because I’m your dad”) Which really meant. “Because I’m the boss.” In those days, there was no defying your parents. A plea was really an order in disguise. I’d drag myself to the living room knowing what was next.

“Can you change the channel?”

I’d give a heavy sigh. No sense in arguing the unfairness of the situation. I’d put my hand on the dial and change the channel, stopping on NBC’s Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. I’d stand next to the TV waiting like Vanna White, except for the smile and the nice outfits.

“Hold on.” My dad would say. “I don’t know if I like this show”

I’d keep my hand on the dial to let him know my frustration and impatience. Thank God there were only three network channels then and not the 500 offered by digital TV along with pay-per-view, and DVR’ed shows plus Netflix.

“Now?” I’d say impatiently.

“No. Change it.” He’d reply.

“Now?”

“Wait… The Dodgers are playing… Nope. They’re losing. Change it.”

“Now?” I’d plead.

“Wait… Okay.”

I’d begin to leave.

“Wait. The picture looks fuzzy. Move the antenna to the right… No. A little to the left. Hold it there. Wait…”

I continue to stare at my son from the kitchen. We stare at each other in silence waiting to see who gives in first. After a few moments he gets up from the table, locates the remote control in the living room and changes the channel himself.

“I’m the parent now. Little man.”