My six-year-old’s latest passion is telling me I’m “not that funny.”
Kayla has invented a “Funny Meter’ and tells me daily that I’m “only half-way there,” while she and Bill are “way at the top of the Funny Meter.”
Given that I like to inject humor into much of my writing, my ego could get a rather big bruising here, but I love this little game we’re playing too much to honestly let it bother me.
I find myself making more jokes when she’s nearby, trying to inch my way up the Funny Meter. Yesterday, I got her laughing about our rotting pumpkins. I even resorted to some potty humor. Kids love that stuff.
“That one out there in the garden? The one that’s frowning? He’s saying ‘There’s frost on my bum! Get me outta here! I didn’t sign up for this!”
Kayla started to giggle.
“Hey! You’re laughing!” I said. “I’m funny!”
“No,” she retorted. “The pumpkins are funny. You, you aren’t that funny.”
And with that, she was off on her school bus, and I was left walking home, laughing at what had just transpired; wondering how to make my kid laugh at my jokes again before she hits Tweenhood and finds me not only not-funny but also not-cool.
This morning, I got her laughing by verbally creating an alternate ending to something on TV. But this kid is always one step ahead of me.
“Hey! You’re laughing! I’m funny! I’m funny,” I said, laughing at myself, and the desperation in my tone.
“Oh, no.” said my stubborn child, her face frozen, expressionless. “No, you aren’t.”
“My mouth was laughing, but my mind didn’t find you that funny.”
I hope she’s a little easier on me when she’s all grown up and attending Law school. Somehow, I doubt it. That’s okay. I’m happy just being her Mom; happy to stay smack in the mediocre-middle of the Funny Meter.
I just hope those pumpkins don’t move up any higher.