My two teenagers were watching TV. Never mind that is was an eighty degree August afternoon; they were deeply engrossed with a repeat of Ridiculousness. At one point, Cole quietly takes the TV remote control and leaves the room. He makes his way to the backyard, climbs a tree with a surprisingly good vantage point, aims the remote through the family room window, and turns the television off. Meg, confused, looks around for the remote. When she can’t find it, she walks across the room and turns the TV back on. This process is repeated several times. Finally, my daughter who takes AP courses in high school and is in advanced math, figures out the TV is not broken, or possessed by ghosts, but is being manipulated by her brother from his tree-top perch. Screaming ensues. Cole climbs down from the tree. A chase breaks out. I hear Meg yelling, “Ass Hole! Ass Hole! Ass Hole!”
I bark, “Cole, give Meg the remote control.”
He throws it at her.
I stare him down.
“Well,” he declares, “I think she should get in trouble for calling me an ass hole.”
I look at my son, the tree, the remote. “Not if you’re actually being an ass hole,” I reply.