He’d actually had to use his key to get in the door, and had been watching television himself for an entire eight minutes. For crying out loud, what kind of father was I, anyway? It got worse when I turned off the TV and reminded him that he had homework to do. He leapt at the remote control, switched the set back on, and screamed, “I was WATCHING that!” just as Ren and Stimpy appeared to sing “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.” This was what happens whenever you throw him off his routine. His discipline collapses like a house of cards. “I don’t care what you were watching,” I said. “It’s time to do your homework.” And, because I was born towards the middle of the twentieth century, walked over to the TV and actually knew how to turn the set “off” manually—by pressing the power button. He stood, dramatically, knowing that the remote’s infrared beam couldn’t reach the TV through the all-too solid body of a father. And he was about to wail when he saw my face, which must have resembled that of the Devil, and my hand, which was in the perennial parent pose—forefinger pointing directly upward, at God, since he/she/it is the one who created this whole parenting system in the first place, and therefore deserves all the blame.
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