Folks, let me
enlighten you about boys Noah's age, and Noah in particular. They don't
want to know about their parents having sex. They don't even want to
believe their parents have sex. Nor do they care whether their parents
share the same bed or sleep in separate rooms. Nor do they go into a panic
every time their father leaves the room or goes off to work. Believe it or
not, kids have other things to concern themselves with.
Kids have school. Kids have friends. Kids have summer camp. Noah, in
particular, has more than most. He lives on a ranch with horses and a
pool. And now a dog. These are the sorts of things a child like Noah would
rightfully be focused on. In fact, up until very recently, it has seemed
that Noah spent the bulk of his life staying over at friends houses. It
hardly seems likely the child would even notice the amount of time his
parents spent at his own house given how little Noah is there himself.
Who knows, perhaps all of Noah's friends grew tired of him, and now he has
no one else to play with. Perhaps the parents of those friends refuse to
invite Noah to any more sleepovers since the kid wakes up in the middle of
the night screaming for his daddy because he had a bad dream. Maybe his
friends are just plain sick of Noah because the only thing that ever comes
out of his mouth is "Daddy" this and "Daddy" that. I know I am.
Noah, like every other child that ever lived in Genoa City, is a plot
device. Children on this show service a story. They are the object of
paternity tests, custody trials and decisions about divorce. They are not
real children. They do not write on the walls with their crayons. They do
not make a mess in the kitchen and spill their cereal all over the living
room. They do not bring friends home to watch TV and play games. They do
not track mud in the house or cut the dog's hair with gardening shears or
do any of the other thousand things real children do. They just stand
around whining about the state of their parents' relationship as though
that were the only concern of their lives.
But beware, little Noah, beware. Eventually this marital crisis too shall
pass, and your services will no longer be required. At that moment you
will be banished once again to the Netherlands. You, too, will suffer the
fate of all those Genoa City children who came before you to service their
own parents' storylines. You will disappear without explanation, never to
be seen nor heard from again, like Nate Hastings or Kyle Abbott. You will
be sent off to Swiss boarding school like Daniel or Lily and not return
until you are old enough to engage in romantic activities of your own.
Then and only then will the writers know what to do with you. And until
that time, for so long as you are a child, you will never be a real boy.
It is your fate as a child at the hands of writers who, for all that is
apparent, have never met a real boy in their whole lives.
