Doing time

For some reason, I'm exhausted by the time I get the kids to bed each night. I can't imagine why.

"What doing?"
"I'm looking for the remote. Did you pick out a bedtime story yet?"
"What doing?"
"Mommy's looking for the remote. Go get up on the couch."
"Oh. What doing Mommy?"
"I'm trying to find the remote."
By now, I'm pulling up couch cushions. The sound of separating velcro catches AJ's attention. He points to the coffee table. "Silly Mommy. It's right here."
"No. That's the remote for changing channels. I need the other one that adjusts the volume."
"What doing Mommy?"
Stuffing the cushions back into place, I answered her question with a question. "Do you suppose I might be... looking for the remote?"
Sydney grins, but again asks, "What doing?"
"What do you think Mommy's doing?"
Another grin. "Wa-mote."
"Right. Now go get back on the couch."
From across the room, I can hear the garage door opening. AJ jumps to his feet, "Daddy's home!"
"Daddy! Daddy!" Sydney squeals in delight.
Jeff walks into the living room after working a late shift.
"Hi Daddy. What doing?"

Sydney and AJ are now asleep. The remote remains missing. It's not that I mind having to walk over to the TV to adjust the volume. It's just that the TV is wedged so tightly into the entertainment center, that it's a blind process to try and squeeze a couple fingers in, and then it's a best guess to remember which button will quiet the shouting, versus which one will make the shouter suddenly turn green or purple.

And the timing is grossly unfair. After the hours I spent last weekend packing away toys that were cluttering the living room, there should be nowhere for that little sucker to hide.