"Yep, that's about right." Kids laugh at, and with, their parents

Humor was a staple in my house growing up.  Both the deliberate and the unintentional kind.

My dad was one of the funniest human beings I have ever met.  A master of impersonations and improvisation, he was quick witted and funny on his feet.  His ribald sayings are not appropriate for this forum, nor would they be among a gathering of longshoremen or most cowboys, but the recollection of those raw and insightful "Bob-isms" is enough to have me and my siblings in stitches within moment of someone saying "well you know what dad always said..."

And he was also Tim Allen before anyone ever heard of Tim Allen.  One of my most cherished memories of my life with him comes from YMCA Indian Guides camp when I was about 7 or 8.  I was sitting on a large rock just off the lakeside path at Camp Ohiyesa, a YMCA camp in Michigan's Livingston County.  As I sat there, I observed silently, save the muffled snickering that was building in chest, my dad, staggering down the path like a drunken sailor wearing a canoe for a hat.  He did not see me (he had a canoe on his head) and I quickly surmised that he was going to take the canoe out for a spin on the lake.

So I watched him walk by.  I knew it was him because of his Chuck Taylor high tops (he only wore gym shoes on weekends and on vacation), his distinctive short sleeved Ban-lon orange polyester shirt with its usual pack of smokes rolled up on the left shirt sleeve, and, well, because he was walking like a tipsy version of one of those big-headed parade characters with a canoe on his head.

Knowing him as I did, there was not one chance in hell (yes, I believe at age 7 or 8 I thought it exactly that way) I was getting in that canoe with him.  This is the man who once zipped a certain part of me up into Dr. Denton pajamas and, later in life, blew himself up trying to light a boiler on a diesel burning furnace.  This is the man who every Saturday would venture into the basement to work on a project and within an hour would be coming upstairs, hands dripping with blood, in search of paper towel and Mercurochrome.  No, I am certain I knew enough about his habits to believe there was not a chance in hell I was getting in that canoe with him.

So I watched him wobble on by with that canoe on his head, and then not five minutes later watched him storm back passed me; talking...more or less mumbling really...to himself without even acknowledging that he saw me, and he was completely soaking wet from his arm pits down to his canvas high tops.

I remember distinctly thinking "yep, that's about right..."

As I said, there was my dad, who was funny.  And then there was my mother, who was more classically funny.  Bill Cosby funny, "Your Show of Shows" funny.  She loves a good joke, or a good prank, or a funny bit just as much as anyone.  I can recall vividly a trip we were taking to my grandmother's house and the four of us; both of my brothers and me, and my sister were all complaining about how "boring it was there" and how all Grandpa ever watched on TV was British comedy and opera.

So she made us a wager.  She said that when she was our age there was no such thing as television and that when we got to Grandma and Grandpa's house, she would play some records (RECORDS?!) for us that would make us think television was boring.  I remember thinking she had been riding in one too many canoes with my dad and had probably hit her head on something.

"Records?  Better than TV?!" we said.  "Ha! - okay mom, what's the bet?"

The wiley schoolteacher bet us that if we agreed, after an hour of listening to records, that they were better than TV, we would give up our TV after school for a week.  We all agreed because we knew there was no way we were losing that bet. 

So after our arrival and hugs and kisses were passed out all around, we settled into the living room with the record player and four records.  I remember them to this day:  The Wonderful World of Jonathan Winters, The Button Down Mind of Bob Newhart, Bill Cosby is a Very Funny Fellow, RIGHT!, and an original recording of Detroit's WXYZ radio's Lone Ranger serial.

We listened to Winters first and were all hooked, immediately.  Each album seemed better than the last.  We gladly gave up our TV privileges in exchange for being able to listen to that Lone Ranger recording all by itself. 

So, as a parent myself, I can see there was some kind of plan to raising kids who weren't just plugged in to the TV, but who understood and appreciated funny things.  Everyone in my family has a sense of humor so it is natural for me to try and raise my kids with that same appreciation for playfulness and good humor.  I can also see that my siblings have a plan for raising funny kids - my older brother, himself also an educator - has what he calls the Canon for American humor that he works his way through with his kids.  Must see movies on his list include Young Frankenstein, It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad World, and Some Like it Hot.

For my family, we try our best at having good humor and laughter as a part of our household routine.  It makes a difference, I can tell already.  I can remember one New Year's eve not long ago, my daughter was about 16 months old and my son about 7 and a half.  We celebrated and let the oldest stay up past midnight when he and I lit off fireworks in the street, another staple of my family.

As we counted down the minutes to midnight, talk turned to New Year's resolutions.  Now I have kept exactly one New Year's resolution in my entire life, switching from regular Pepsi to diet Pepsi many many years ago and I believe I was aided in that only by the addictive properties of my "dark master, Diet Pepsi."

Nonetheless, I make resolutions every year.  So I told Michael "This is the year that I am cleaning up my language, no more swears." 

Now talk about having a house full of humor, my wife and son laughed out loud at that mere fact that my tongue did not leap from my lying lips and run screaming down the street at the absurdity of that proclamation.  But, I figured, what the hell?  It couldn't hurt to try and ease up on the bad language.

So, after kissing us all good night and wishing us a Happy New Year, my wife climbs the stairs with the 15 month old, tucks her in, and goes to bed herself.  Junior and I light off our fireworks, cleanup and are headed to bed about 45 minutes later.  I say to him, about 50 times, to keep quiet once we are in the house.  "No lights, no noise, we'll brush our teeth extra hard in the morning. The last thing I need," I said, "a crying 15 month old" who has been awakened from her cozy slumber.

So my son tip-toes upstairs without turning on any lights and I hear him very quietly getting ready for bed.  I follow behind him but somehow manage to kick a stainless steel cookie sheet holding the dead bodies of all the fireworks on it into a picture frame, with glass, that sits at the bottom of our stairs. 

The quiet of our New Year's eve home was shattered and, all of a sudden, our house sounded like Chinese New Year for about 1/10th of a second.  I waited for the sound to settle to see if the little one was stirring, which, of course, she was, and then let out in a loud stage whisper:

"FUDGE!"

Only I didn't say "Fudge."

It's true.  Sad, inexcusable, but altogether true.  I considered the swear words in my arsenal and as a first strike reached immediately for the atom bomb.  It was out of my lips before I even knew it was coming up my throat.

The dim hope I had that no one heard me faded fast when, from my son's room through the darkness, I heard a little giggle and him say to himself "Well, that didn't last long."

I wonder if he also thought to himself, "Yep, that seems about right."

So thanks for stopping by my blog today.  Whatever it is you are up to today, I hope there are some laughs and the foundations for some warm memories involved.  Take good care of yourselves.

Dennis