When You've Seen Too Much....
You know when you were a kid and everything was funny?
As time passes, you aren't nearly as amused by bodily noises anymore, and you move onto more intellectual forms of humor, that usually involves a lot of knowing looks and snobby snickering.
And then after that...
After that.
Well, after that, life suddenly just becomes rather predictable and bland.
I'm afraid I have been striving to make people laugh for so long that I guess (and quiet accurately) all the punchlines before they come, and nothing is funny because I know what is coming. Instead of being tickled to the bone about something witty, I watch the balled up fist move in slow-motion towards me and I look at it with my head cocked, and move slightly to the side and watch as the punchline misses its mark and stumbles past, bewildered.
So, things are only funny to me when they occur by happenstance. I am delighted by the unintentional.
Which is super disappointing to Joshua, who is in his raw humor stage, and his knock-knock jokes fail to dazzle me, which breaks his tiny man heart.
"Knock-knock!" Josh says, mischief glittering in his eye.
"Who's there?" I ask, hoping beyond hope that this time his joke won't end in a rude noise.
"Snargle," he says, looking at me sideways.
"Snargle who?" I ask trying to riddle it out.
"Snargle poop!" he guffaws.
I just blink.
"You never laugh at my jokes!" he exclaims, and then slinks down in his chair.
"I'm sorry," I robotically return. "I can only laugh if it's really funny!"
I'm afraid I've seen too much to humor my son. I don't want to give him pity laughs, but I know deep down somewhere I am failing my son by not genuinely enjoying his attempts to make me laugh.
It's kind of like murder mysteries.
I've read so many Agatha Christie novels that I can unravel any mystery thrown at me, much to Jeremy's annoyance, because as soon as all is revealed, I turn to him, semi-elated that I figured it out and semi-disappointed that it was so easy, that I was right all along.
And it's like when my kids wake up in the morning, delighted to the very corners of their beings that it magically snowed.
I'm like, "Poop, it snowed" and they're like, "Where did this magical dusting of fairy fantasticalness come from?? Isn't it amazing!?"
I think God made provisions for this, however.
You see, however dull or humdrum the world may seem to me, I am always struck with awe when I look into the sky at night, and see distant points of light, and wonder to myself, "Are my other brothers and sisters around that star tonight?" Then I feel small and feel like what I know isn't even a beginning of what I can know.
Makes me wonder how people can think there is no God. All you have to do is look at the stars or the intricate workings of the inner space of our bodies to realize that somebody is orchestrating all of it.
As time passes, you aren't nearly as amused by bodily noises anymore, and you move onto more intellectual forms of humor, that usually involves a lot of knowing looks and snobby snickering.
And then after that...
After that.
Well, after that, life suddenly just becomes rather predictable and bland.
I'm afraid I have been striving to make people laugh for so long that I guess (and quiet accurately) all the punchlines before they come, and nothing is funny because I know what is coming. Instead of being tickled to the bone about something witty, I watch the balled up fist move in slow-motion towards me and I look at it with my head cocked, and move slightly to the side and watch as the punchline misses its mark and stumbles past, bewildered.
So, things are only funny to me when they occur by happenstance. I am delighted by the unintentional.
Which is super disappointing to Joshua, who is in his raw humor stage, and his knock-knock jokes fail to dazzle me, which breaks his tiny man heart.
"Knock-knock!" Josh says, mischief glittering in his eye.
"Who's there?" I ask, hoping beyond hope that this time his joke won't end in a rude noise.
"Snargle," he says, looking at me sideways.
"Snargle who?" I ask trying to riddle it out.
"Snargle poop!" he guffaws.
I just blink.
"You never laugh at my jokes!" he exclaims, and then slinks down in his chair.
"I'm sorry," I robotically return. "I can only laugh if it's really funny!"
I'm afraid I've seen too much to humor my son. I don't want to give him pity laughs, but I know deep down somewhere I am failing my son by not genuinely enjoying his attempts to make me laugh.
It's kind of like murder mysteries.
I've read so many Agatha Christie novels that I can unravel any mystery thrown at me, much to Jeremy's annoyance, because as soon as all is revealed, I turn to him, semi-elated that I figured it out and semi-disappointed that it was so easy, that I was right all along.
And it's like when my kids wake up in the morning, delighted to the very corners of their beings that it magically snowed.
I'm like, "Poop, it snowed" and they're like, "Where did this magical dusting of fairy fantasticalness come from?? Isn't it amazing!?"
I think God made provisions for this, however.
You see, however dull or humdrum the world may seem to me, I am always struck with awe when I look into the sky at night, and see distant points of light, and wonder to myself, "Are my other brothers and sisters around that star tonight?" Then I feel small and feel like what I know isn't even a beginning of what I can know.
Makes me wonder how people can think there is no God. All you have to do is look at the stars or the intricate workings of the inner space of our bodies to realize that somebody is orchestrating all of it.
A man was driven by inner flame
to gain knowledge, wealth and worldly fame,
And by his solitary candle's glow
Proclaimed, I am because I made it so.
Another, illuminated by celestial fire,
Did in greatness achieve all which he did aspire,
His pathway ablaze and all aglow,
exclaimed, I am because God made it so.
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But, that's probably because I'm a lunatic.