Perfect Children Needn't Apply

There is an obnoxious commercial from about two years ago that features a five-ish daughter and her VERY patient Father. He buckles her into the car on the second row, passenger side while she, talking as if the world will end if she stops, babbles on. After closing the door, dear Dad walks to the driver's side door, opens it, and you hear daughter, who has, no doubt, NEVER STOPPED TALKING.

Oh.My.Gosh. She is related to the Babe.

He babbled like other babies but generally found the ear-piercing scream to be more effective when it came to important stuff like "Let go of that toy, older sibling" or "I've been in this crib longer than I care to be". We learned, early on, with this one you better not cross a line because he'll rain death and destruction on your ears that no hearing aid will ever be able to remedy.

Over the course of his young life, approximately one quarter of his days have been spent with us in "remodel mode" in one house or the other*. The child is well-versed in contractor types and recognizes that they make good play buddies. THANKFULLY, we've had a house full of guys who have obliged him in every way possible, from letting him "participate" to just listening to his ramblings on Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and Legos.

One fine day, about three weeks ago, the only person working on our house was the general contractor. He is a really nice man, with grown kids of his own, and one grandchild under his belt. He's been there, done that, before. At least, he THOUGHT he had.

Then the babe unleashed his verbal powers. Literally, I was standing in the kitchen loading and unloading the dishwasher and the child, a couple of rooms away, NEVER stopped talking. Every once in a while the object of his communicatory unload would say "uh huh" or something like "that's good". The project he was working on was accomplished a while later. His ears? Still ringing when he approached me about an hour later.

I proceeded to tell him what a good sport he was for listening to the Babe. Then I said "I guess you didn't find the "off button" at the base of the Babe's skull, underneath his hairline?"

Without missing a beat, his response was "You didn't tell me he was a Stepford Child."

In case you missed that 70's phenomenon, Stepford Children are related to the Wives, mechanical beings who do everything right the first time, without question, and no backtalk.

They bear no relation to any child who has ever grown up in this house. We are a clan of questioning, third-time responders, who think backtalk is a political right, buried somewhere in the Constitution.

Yes, folks, our kids aren't perfect. In fact, they very much resemble, well, real kids. The off button? Not a one in sight.

So, the parental, verbal corrections will have to continue until these issues are resolved. Or until the kids hit eighteen and move onto college somewhere.

Or until my ears start to bleed. Whichever comes first.


*Just typing that makes me grind my teeth.