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“I like funny Mommy.”

I am not funny. Some might call me serious. Others might say I am too serious. I might agree. and yet every so often — like a solar eclipse or a leap year — I get the giggles. Everything is funny. I can’t stop laughing. The grosser and more juvenile the topic, the more I laugh. Sometimes, I laugh at things that just aren’t that funny.

Tonight I was hanging out in the kitchen with the kids. The giggles started. My older daughter asked me what her French horn teacher’s name was. Her piano teacher wanted to know. I couldn’t stop myself.

“Tell her that he is in the witness protection program and he changes his name often.” I started belly laughing, to my daughter’s amazement. “Mommy, what is wrong with you?”

“Tell her that he runs around our house spitting at things and we wouldn’t want him to do that at her house.” Then I got up and pantomimed running around the house spitting at things. Then I fell into a ball holding my stomach. The little one, always a lover of silly and laughing, fell on the floor next to me. Even the big one started laughing along. I tried to explain that what they were seeing was like Halley’s Comet, rare and beautiful. Something to enjoy as it lasted.

The big one finished dinner and went upstairs to study. The little one stuck around hoping for more fun. I obliged.

It continued with me asking our Google Home all sorts of crazy questions — about Siri, about singing, about flatulence, about weird things. Then I started impersonating people, talking to Google as the weird guy we used to prank people as way back when. It doesn’t sound like it would be that funny, but we were both convulsing on the floor laughing. Tears streamed down my face and my stomach actually hurt from laughing. And then real inspiration hit. “Okay, Google. Play fart music.”

Google’s answer was a one-hour all-farts-all-the-time recording. Immediately, we both started laughing harder. “Let’s use this to call people,” I said. We dialed my sister first, tacking on *67 so she wouldn’t get our caller ID. She didn’t answer so we left a shockingly loud 20-second fart fest on her voicemail. Then we called my husband, who was still at work. Again, *67. Again voicemail. We left a message with my little one giggling in the background. “You ruined the joke,” I griped loudly. Then it was time to call Grandma.

My mother answered the phone after two rings and listened to the flatulent noises for about 20 seconds before she hung up. I know my mother well enough to hear her frustration and fear in the silence so I immediately called her back, handing the phone to the little one to explain. I didn’t want to get yelled at. My mother told us that she thought the call was one of her neighbors. She was actually very upset! We apologized and hung up. I wasn’t done yet.

My final idea was vetoed by my daughter. “Let’s call a pizza place! I will say, (in a funny accent) ‘I ate your pizza and now this is happening.'” Surprisingly, my daughter vetoed it, saying she didn’t want to get arrested! I laughed out loud, but realized that — despite the fact that I was setting a terrible example — my serious mothering track record wasn’t going to be obliterated by funny mom antics. She still knew right from wrong even if I temporarily forgot!

Later that night as I was sitting in my office finishing a work article the little one knocked on my door and jumped into my lap. “Mama,” she said. “I like funny mommy. Will you be funny tomorrow?” I don’t know, sweetheart. I just don’t know.

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