I have a son. A son whom I adore.
He is one of three, the middle one.
He doesn't laugh as much as the other two, or as often as the other two, he never has.
So, when this boy does open up the heavens and hand over the pearl of a gift that his laugh is, ..our entire household stops in our tracks, and we communally surrender to the surprise and the sweetness of the sound of middlest laughing.
It is such a treat, that when we hear it, we announce it, like one excitedly shouts the winner of a race.
"Hey! I made middlest laugh!"
"Mom? Did you hear that? I made middlest laugh."
"Hey, boys...did you hear that? I just made your brother laugh."
Sometimes, the joy and exhilaration I feel at being able to make him laugh are such a rush, that I question what I've just heard. I ask....just to be sure... "Hey, hon...did I just make you laugh?," I want to be sure.
I will stop at NOTHING to hear this child laugh.
It's all fair game. All is fair in laughter and war: physical humor, cheap shtick, corny jokes, the chicken dance. Do I care what I look like? No. All of it is in my arsenal. I can flap my arms and knock my knees like nobody's business.
I stop at NOTHING. It is hopeless to resist. I am on to what he likes and that which tickles his funny bone.
He likes the quick jabs.
The one two punch.
The unexpected twist on his brothers, gets him every time.
The build up...then the surprise he didn't see coming.
He likes the call back to events from earlier in the day.
I have studied him and now major in him.
This boy doesn't stand a chance.
"Hey, middlest, did I ever tell you I went to Yale?"
"You did, mom?"
"Yep. Don't you want to know when?"
"Yeah. I didn't know you went to Yale, mom. When did you go?"
"I yust got out."
*Ba dum dum*
You stand no chance, my beautiful boy. And I will show no mercy.