In my experience as a
three-time parent, there is
something absolutely, spiritually
magical about the
first time your child cracks
a joke.
I’m not talking about
knock-knocks that don’t
make sense, so you laugh at
their absurdity.
(Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Uhhh, Poopy?
Poopy, who?
Poopy Pants!)
It’s not that I don’t enjoy
the poopy pants-style humor
that is so popular with
small children. I just hope
that, unlike Adam Sandler,
my children will outgrow
that particular phase of humor.
That they might introduce
subtleties of irony,
word play, satire and even
sarcasm.
Already I see good signs
from Bee, who is about 6
1/2.
Last night, after a delicious
meal of fried eggplant,
angel hair pasta and red
sauce with a side of tomato
and mozzarella salad, Bee
was leaning against the island
in the kitchen while I
cleaned up.
``Would pasta and pasta
make a fire?’’ she asked.
I turned to see her rubbing
two tiny lengths of
dried capellini together like
a Boy Scout.
``No,’’ I told her. ``Two
pieces of pasta will not
make a fire.’’
``Or maybe they’ll make
a pasta fire,’’ she said.
``With pasta sparks and
pasta flames that explode
everywhere. With pasta.’’
Her face melted into a
wry, satisfied smile.
My motherly heart
skipped a glorious little
beat.
Humor is important in
my world.
Where other parents
hope their children are successful,
I hope my children
are funny.
I mean, I know they can
live fully productive and
satisfying lives without being
funny. And I would love
them just as much if they
weren’t funny. I know, I
know. Really, it would be
fine.
When they were babies,
I naturally thought about
all the other things that
parents think about. Their
health and happiness were
my first hopes for them, of
course. And I thought about
all the firsts that we could
experience together. Their
first days at school. Their
first favorite songs. Their
first lost teeth and first
bike rides.
But I also thought about
the first time we would be
able to watch ``Raising Arizona’’
together and incorporate
lines from the film into
our everyday vernacular.
(``Only if you think round
is funny.’’)
And as every mother
imagines the things she’ll
pass down to her daughters
— a strand of pearls, a silver
tea set — I imagined
the day when I would be
able to give my girls their
very own ``Dorothy Parker
Reader,’’ to cherish as I
have cherished mine.
So yes, I worried that
they might not appreciate
the art and importance of
humor the way I do. I worried
that they might look
upon it the way I looked
upon my own mother’s deep
appreciation for Barbra
Streisand. I know Babs is
popular, but she just doesn’t
do anything for me.
Fortunately, it looks like
I needn’t have worried. My
son and I have shared
``Raising Arizona’’ many
times. His sense of humor
is strong and healthy.
Posey’s sense of humor
is undeniable, even at 3.
She is our little clown, with
impeccable comic timing
and great agility for broad,
physical humor. No one
does a pratfall as well as
Posey.
But Bee can be so serious.
She likes to laugh, and
she does laugh. But I have
been waiting to see how her
humor will evolve as she
grows older.
So it was like a great
gift, this tiny, absurd bit of
humor. A pasta fire. And
she knew it, too, smiling at
me with that wry smile of
hers.
I can’t wait to see what
she thinks of Dorothy Parker.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
thinks round is funny.
You can connect with her at
www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.com.
