I am the funniest person in the world

Almost as funny as me

At least, that is what my 8-year old would have me believe. None of the parenting books tell you this, but truly, having your kid think you are funny is one of the better perks of motherhood. Never before have I been able to so consistently, so predictably and so easily make someone bust a gut over the dumbest thing I say.

When I was in my 20s, pre-meeting my husband, I used to think the perfect partner for me would be someone who either A) thought I was funnier than I do, which could be tricky as I do think I am pretty damn hilarious. I mean, I am constantly cracking myself up. Woo-hoo, girl, that was a good one! Or B) perfect partner would be someone who I found funnier than I find myself. And that, in the grand scheme of things, really wouldn’t be too challenging because, actually, I am not that funny. I know, I just said I really crack myself up but that doesn’t mean I am truly witty, it just means I have a rather juvenile sense of humor and I know just the kind of inane crap that will really bowl me over. But if we could invent some kind of objective scale of funniness to measure a person’s humor abilities, I don’t expect I would rate all that high. Every once in a while I can get off a good one, but it’s the exception, not the rule.

However, my daughter appears not to be terribly discerning in the perception of humor department. Maybe it has to do with the fact that she’s eight, is my guess. Her amusement might also be attributed to my aforementioned juvenile sense of humor. Earlier tonight she and I were playing some cards. Our dog (who, incidentally, does not have much of a sense of humor AT ALL; take that time we took him to the indoor dog park and that pack of big dogs chased him around the perimeter of the building trying to sniff his butt. He did not find that funny at all, but I on the other hand, thought it was a riot). Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, the dog gets all antsy when we sit on the floor and play games, circling us, walking on the game and generally being a pain in the ass until I give him a rawhide to chew on. So he’s gnawing away, taking a break periodically to sniff the rawhide and then roll around on top of it in the hope that he can get that delicious stink of chewed-up, slimy rawhide on his back. He also appears to be experiencing some gas – really bad gas, too.  So I say, “Ewww, Carson, you farted. That’s gross! You’re gross!” And this sends Martha into such a fit of giggles, rolling around on the floor, barely able to breathe. The more mature parent might try to bring the fit of giggles under control, guide the child towards a calmer state. But me? I say it again, primarily only because Carson passed some more gas moments later. Same effect on Martha, though. Damn, I am so funny.

Then after dinner, the husband and I play another game with her which we call the candy-matching game. It’s the game of concentration with the most luscious-looking, old-fashioned candies decorating the cards, thus, the candy-matching game. After a few rounds, for no particular reason, I begin to affect a Kermit-the-frog-like voice with a British accent, of course, and I do a little play-by-play of each person’s turn. “Martha turns over ribbon candy and shoestring licorice, that’s no match! Mommy finds marzipan and… another marzipan! Hoo-ray, mommy scores another match!” Again, Martha thinks I am hilarious. I even think I hear a bit of a chuckle issue from my husband, who generally thinks I am more buffoon than comic.

So now, basking in the afterglow of my dear child’s ego boost, I thought I’d take the old humor-mobile for one more spin. Hope you enjoyed the ride.