I don't think I've lost my sense of humor, but when I give my writing the quick, pre-Publish once-over, I keep thinking, "This shit sounds grim." Yes, things have been pretty serious 'round my ladyparts lately, but the joking hasn't stopped. It just hasn't made it as far as the blog.
Part of the problem is that as Rob and I start liking each other better, we generate tons narrow-audience humor. I mean really narrow-audience. As in, "You had to be there...and be Rob or Noelle."
(Is this what people mean when they say stuff like, "I'm married to my best friend"? No one else could possibly understand that a string of terrible, off-the-cuff, joke-trope spoofs had me stitches for three hours? "Yo-Yo Ma is so fat, his cello is a double bass!" Stop, you're killing me! "Yo-Yo Ma is so fat, when he plays cello around the house, he plays cello around the house!" Really...I can't breathe...)
Then there's Westley, for whom the epitome of hilarity is my turning him upside down and kissing him. But if anything beats making Rob laugh (he's very particular about his comedy), it's making Westley laugh, so I keep trying to expand my preschooler-targeted act. Last week, I struck comedy gold.
Blessedly, it happened when it really needed to, on One of Those Days. Westley and I had stopped at the library to check some books and a puppet (our library lets us check out puppets! It's the raddest), and were hanging out at PCC, eating the best of all PCC lunches: avocado-tomato sandwiches and freshly made vegan cookies. Westley and the (I'm guessing) 2-1/2-year-old boy at the next table were having a raspberry-blowing contest. I was not amused. The little boy's mother was even less amused, possibly because she had a 6-month-old baby strapped to her chest and probably hadn't slept since January.
I could feel this other mother glaring at me—like I was somehow supposed to be able to control my son's behavior—but after a few attempts at correcting Westley, I gave up. I let the anger marinate for a few minutes. Then I realized that the anger I was experiencing was hers, not mine. Let a stranger I would probably never see again make my hard day worse? Fuck that!
I dug in our bag for the library puppet, a white mouse with a super-long tail. Suddenly, the mouse perched on the edge of the table, and started playing air guitar: "Smoke on the Water." Mousey was about to move on to "All Along the Watchtower," but Westley, completely delighted, started humming along! Soon my kid and I were both laugh-singing like fools over our half-eaten lunch.
I didn't care about looking like That Mom. I completely forgot about the woman at the next table. I didn't care that I was singing (poorly) in public with my hand up a plush mouse's ass. I was too busy being funny.