We’ve gone nearly two weeks without losing the TV remote. At first glance, this would seem good fortune. But it may be merely that the biggest culprit has moved on to hiding other things.

I’ve never owned a cell phone. Someday society will force a cell phone upon me, but I’m trying to hold out at least until 50, when age may make me less embarrassing to my family as I proudly wield my new, operator-assisted Jitterbug.

Easy-to-read buttons will make it simple for me to phone customer service and complain about people calling me.

In these days when a reliable cell phone is a higher priority to most humans than a reliable liver, I am able to exist without one only because I have become a singularly unimportant and disagreeable person, so no one needs or wants to call me.

I have a home phone line. It is mostly used by telemarketers; they don’t discriminate against the useless or the surly. Occasionally, I use it to expedite my affairs, but mostly it’s just a tease for telemarketers.

Unlike his father, Big Man loves talking on the phone, even when he is talking to dial tone. He demands the phone any time someone has it in hand and screams bloody murder if he’s left out of a conversation. When he gets his hands on it, he walks around the house with the phone resting on his shoulder, oozing happy baby talk to the spirit of Alexander Graham Bell.

His love of phones dates back to his childhood.

He knows more about using the phone than his father does. One day he changed the ring tone so it played Für Elise. Who knew it could do that?

We used to have two cordless phone sets. For the past few weeks, we’ve had one. The one that isn’t mostly broken disappeared. Rather, it was taken. Big Man climbed up the bar stool next to the counter, grabbed the phone from its dock, and scampered off with it.

That’s the last anyone saw of it. Now, we’re left with the one containing an unreliable battery. And the baby hasn’t even taught me if this one can play music when it rings.

I’ve searched his normal hiding spots for the good phone, not because I’m missing important calls, but because I hate to lose things, especially the less-broken versions of things. My wife pointed out Big Man’s abbreviated height. “It could only be in so many places,” she concluded.

And I’ve looked in all of them.

No, it’s not in your stash between the love seat and the lamp post. I already looked there.

I asked Big Man where he put it. He hid his guilt behind the excuse of not being able to speak English yet, but he gave me a little smile that said, “I’m sure a cookie would help me remember.”

Nuts to cookies! I know when I’m being played.

I don’t think he remembers where he put it. He’s moved on to Mommy’s iPhone now. Yesterday, he snatched it from her purse and purged her calendar. Mommy’s life is written in that calendar, or was.

That puts it into perspective for me. Poor Mommy has no idea where she’s supposed to be. I just have one fewer phone not to answer. I guess I made out pretty good.