Like Jr. High school girls, The Muse's mom and I sit on the couch giggling, avoiding inquiries from the girls: "What? What's so funny?"
We giggled like this when her second child walked around singing "F*cky - F*ck! F*cky - F*ck!" at two. And when Eggplant yelled what sounded just like "G*d D*mn" when he meant "Look". And when I interrupted one of our phone conversations to remind Eggplant, then three, "We don't put our test*cles on the table sweetie." And every time the kids say something that warrants us mumbling "That's what she said" to each other under our breath.
And especially the time when I had an infection, the kind that makes bread rise, and she called me on the phone to play Johnny Cash's "Burning Ring of Fire" in the background (Am I right ladies?).
The thing is that parenthood breaks a person open so many times a day. They take their first step and we simultaneously cheer and weep. They roll their eyes at us and we are at once annoyed and wounded. They go off to a sleep-over and we are relieved to sit in silence while our arms ache for their presence.
It's enough to turn a person into a whimpering bundle of listlessness.
So we laugh. We laugh at the serious stuff we're supposed to be too mature to find funny -- like how she called me after I'd had major surgery just to laugh at my drug-induced ramblings. Or the time a condition in her 7th month of pregnancy prevented her from being able to walk and I pushed her blanketed body around the zoo in a wheelchair, yelling in her ears, "Those are the lions dear! I said the LIONS! L-I-O-N-S. Roar!"
It's the little things, the funny little things, that keep us sane.
(That's what she said.)
|Me, drugged, incoherent, and funny|
|Her, looking quite elderly, at the zoo|