A New Game: Finding the Clicker

For those of you not in the know, the remote control for the tv set in our house is referred to as the “clicker”. Some evenings, with the last brain cells remaining functioning in my head after a day of tending to needs of my children, (ages 6, 3, and 14 months) I actually desire to see a program on the dusty screen of our television.

This is a lot more complicated than it sounds. You see, before we had children, the clicker went in the drawer of the side table drawer in our living room. Maybe we’d forget to put it in the drawer, but then it was usually sitting on the side table, or maybe, on a bad day, on a chair. This object took approximately 10 seconds to locate, then we settled down with our popcorn, pressed a few buttons, and presto, the desired program came on the screen.

Now that we have children, things are a somewhat different.

I check in all the regular places. It’s not in the drawer, it’s not on the side table, it’s not on the tv, it’s not behind the tv, it’s not wedged between the couch cushions, it’s not under the couch, and the program stars in 2 minutes. Where could it be?

I start checking all the irregular places: the bathroom, the kitchen sink, the windowsill, the plants, the toybox, the bookshelf, the Tupperware cabinet, and the drawer with the kitchen knives.

Finally, I sneak into the kids’ room and check the drawer in the changing table (holding my breath the whole time), under their beds, and in the drawers of their nightstands. No clicker. Now I’m oxygen deprived and it’s 3 minutes past the program’s start time, but I’m still holding out hope of being able to understand the entire premise of the show. Only at 7 minutes into a program is all hope lost.

My husband joins me in the search (it’s something he wants to watch, too.) Where? Where? Where is the freaking clicker?

He, being somewhat more in touch with the concealing habits of the male of the species, finds it. He holds it aloft triumphantly, containing his glee to a muffled whisper, “I found it!” We race to the tv, 4 minutes into the program. At the first commercial break, I turn to him and ask, “so, where was it, anyway?”

It was in the hallway, tucked securely into one of his gym shoes. I got up and got the Lysol.