Random ramblings and TV-inspired activities

Saturday, 3 September 2011

My sofa is insatiable

What's my son's favourite toy? Could it be any of the carefully selected age-appropriate toys, such as the push-along fire engine (which is quite popular and in my view rather marvellous - doesn't need batteries, comes with a fireman and firelady, and is made in Britain!)? No, it's not even one of his sister's toys either. It's the remote controls.

I don't know what it is about remote controls, but my daughter was the same. We went out and bought a 'baby mobile phone' for her, which I figured was roughly equivalent, nay, even better than the real thing. It had rubbery buttons, was roughly rectangular, and bits lit up and made noises when you pressed the buttons! (So many things in my life post-kids light up and make noises. It's a bit like living in the Blackpool Illuminations.)

Of course, she would have no truck with it if there was a real remote control to hand, and nor will Baby Boy. A boring old remote control, that doesn't do much, unless you press the right button which makes Mummy go "Aaargh! No! I need that back now please!" as the TV comes on/goes off/gets very loud/opens up a menu I have never seen before or will again.

The upshot of this is that finding the remote control at any given moment is always a bit of a treasure hunt. To complicate matters, there's one remote control for the PVR, one for the DVD player, and one that makes the TV come on (and can make a DVD play, but only if it doesn't have a menu you need to navigate). So not only do you need to keep track of where one roving remote has been deposited by Baby Boy, you have to keep track of three. Or else witness me howling with frustration as I try to do my DVD workout without the DVD remote, thereby trapping me in an eternal loop of Intro > Medical recommendations. So near and yet so far, never able to move the menu selector down to 'Workouts'. It's a trial almost worthy of Greek tragedy.

Which is the situation I found myself in the other day. Daddy had the kids, it was a rare moment in which I had the house to myself. And could I find the remote contol I needed? Of course not.

I spent 30 frustrated minutes going through the living room trying to find the damn thing before giving up in a fit of pique.

Husband comes home and lends a hand with the hunt. Now I'd already looked in the sofa, shoving fingers down the sides and giving them a good wiggle to try and make contact with anything remote-control-ish, but it wasn't. And while there was a fair quantity of gubbins skulking in there, I didn't have time to clean it out. Boy should I have done.

Husband industriously retrieves the pile of clothes that had managed to migrate under the side panels and down the back of the sofa:

That's half a washload on its own.

Whilst taking joint-responsibility for not keeping on top of the situation - out of sight, out of mind - how has the sofa managed to absorb that many items of clothing?! Personally, I'd like to blame poor sofa design, as the side panels are wide enough for things to wedge themselves down, but not wide enough for you to stick your hand down to retrieve said stuff without leaving most of the skin off the back of your knuckles down there too.

Baby Boy is no longer allowed to play with the remotes. And the remote control I needed wasn't down there in the end. It was sitting on the other sofa, in plain sight. Where I'd looked three times already. Whoops.


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