Laugh-In

It’s a sad state of affairs when your son cries if you laugh really hard. Because he’s not accustomed to seeing you crack up. To him, the long, silent smile, the quivering shoulders, and little puffs through the nostrils are freakish. Terrifying, even.

Come to think of it, my laughter bums out my husband Joe, too. Just at night, though. His circadian rhythm involves an early bedtime. This is unfortunate because 10 pm to midnight is hilarity prime-time for me.  By that point in the day, work is (usually) done. The dinner dishes await, but my ever-loving children are asleep. That means they’re not asking me to buy frozen logs of fundraiser cookie dough so they can earn lead-filled jewelry rewards. I open a book or get online and find humor. Company.

“What were you laughing at last night?” Joe will ask in the morning, as we fill backpacks and iron work shirts. I think back eight hours. He was in bed upstairs, and I was downstairs trolling around on Facebook. What was I laughing at? I don’t remember. Was he dreaming? Neither of us is sure.

I wash an apple and set it in my daughter’s lunch box. I think of my mother, who worked incredibly hard when I was young. Sometimes, during a family dinner she’d meticulously prepared, she’d laugh until she’d cry. Two of her children attended the small, independent school where she taught. The characters and scenes were known to all–the students and staff, the halls and classrooms. “You know the cloak room by the auditorium…?” I’d begin, setting the stage. Yes, she knew. Tales and impersonations would follow. Her peals of laughter were like a balm to us, huddled around the table, always with candle light, in the dark daylight saving’s time. Now I know a little of what the laughter meant to her.