Emmie has broken the oft-taped remote again. It requires me, in a surreal revisit to my childhood, to stand and change the channel until she sees what she wants.

I'm working on my monthly column for Metro Augusta Parent Magazine, and I only need a few more minutes to finish.

"Mama, will you change the station for me, please?"

"In a minute, sweetie, I'm writing."

"But I don' like dis one!"

"Dude, it's 'Star Wars.' You're genetically wired to enjoy this."

"Mama. I'm seerous. I don' wan' see dem bamming each udder all da time."

"Alright. Give me a minute. I'm on a roll."

She heaves a sigh. "Channels don't change to numbers by demselbes, you know."

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