My husband and sons have a strange chromosomal bond with the remote control.
They have even given said remote control a name: "The weapon of honor."
This is a mystery to me. I certainly don't care even half as much as them about having the thing in my hands. They, on the other hand, find it odd that I don't mind standing up to change the channel by hand. When they're all peeking under the furniture to find the missing limb and I stand to change the channel or turn the box off, it's as if I'd just sprouted a second or third head. They look at me with shock and maybe a little horror. I have attributed this difference to being the only female in the home.
I think of it as part of my job, as the sole daily feminine influence, to teach my young men some civilized manners. I do battle with this behemoth with varying degrees of success.
I remember taking particular delight in a book that listed strange, antiquated laws that were actually on the books at one time or another. At the time I read it, I didn't have kids and I wondered who had ever thought these laws were necessary. On the one hand, you have the laws written by people who obviously don't like kids.
After reviewing this book that gave me so much amusement, I am relieved not to live in Nebraska where a parent can be arrested if his child cannot hold back a burp during a church service. I'd be spending some serious time in the hoosegow if this were the law around here.
On the other hand, it doesn't take much work for me to picture exactly why in Alaska it is illegal to push a moose out of an airplane in motion or why in Kansas it is forbidden to practice knife-throwing at men wearing striped suits. Parents made these laws. In fact, I've written some of my own based on necessity. Some examples follow.