Sometimes, I Forget to Laugh

It’s not unusual for me to grab a mish-mash of stuff on my way to the car.  Things that could have, should have been done before leaving home but are, instead, completed on the run.

As I hustled the kids out the door, cold hit my face; it was cooler than I expected this morning.  I dashed back inside to get an extra jacket for my son.  Socks, keys, bag, iPhone, drink bottle, shoes, coffee in a takeaway mug, oh, and a snack — check.

“Does everyone have a jumper? Drink bottle? Lunch box? Bag?”

My arms were full as I fumbled with the keys to lock the door behind me.

School drop off zone. Kids, cars: everywhere. Kisses. “Have a great day!” Car doors slam.

Then, it was just son and I.  He had no shoes on. Lonely socks sat on the passenger seat with the last minute jumper, and a warm hat. I could see the small shoes on the floor of the car.

No time now; next stop job.

I pulled the hand break but kept the car running.  I wanted to charge my iPhone for a few moments longer.  I turned in my seat to unstrap son.

“Feet up!” I instructed.

Socks on.

Velcro rip.

Shoes on.

“It’s quite cold outside son, so you’ll need this jumper,” I announced.

The sleeves of the undershirt rolled up as his arms slid through the jumper.

I stifled his complaint in anticipation, before it even began.

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Robot.

I slipped my fingers under the jumper sleeve, searching for the phantom under-sleeve. Searching.

His body jiggled with my efforts.

I opened my mouth to say something, and caught the words before breath and sound formed.  I paused and caught his eye for the first time this day.

“What am I going to say?” There was humour in my voice.

I smiled now.

A short giggle escaped his lips. He got it.

“Son, you’re getting sooooooo BIG,” he said, mimicking the words I often mutter — sometimes unknowingly; sometimes to myself — as I help him dress.

I laughed now.

I felt the gurgle climb my throat.

Oh, the sound is a wonderful thing!

Natural, spontaneous laughter.

It took me by surprise.

His giggles turned into continuous bounces.

I let my laughter respond to his.

I can’t decipher which sound is coming from who. One sound. One moment.

I’m good at being a robot.

Things to do, places to go, people to see.

Problems to fix, kids to feed, coffee to drink.

Sometimes, I forget to laugh.

And yet, if I stop, just for a short moment — and slice through a robot responses — something magical can happen.

If I halt the sequence, and be present — right then and there — joy awaits.

Sometimes, I forget to laugh.

I’m glad laughter hasn’t forgotten me.