With my husband in Colorado and Elder at Mizzou, Younger and I were left with only each other to entertain us. So, when we were delivered pizza to our booth and he immediately bit into a slice only to exclaim, “Haaaaa,” while simultaneously bending over his plate to expel the burning cheese, I burst into giggles.
He glared at me. “Not funny.”
“Well, a little funny,” I managed between smothered snorts. “You made a pretty loud noise for my child who likes to fade into the background.”
“I did not squeal,” he objected.
“I never said squeal.” I tried and failed to swallow my continuing laughter. I was exhausted and giggles always win during exhaustion. “I said ‘loud noise.’ ”
Still insulted, he repeated, “I didn’t squeal. I emitted a manly utterance of surprise.”
“Sure,” I gulped. “Manly utterance of surprise.”
Eventually, I settled into mere random chuckles, and we continued with the pizza — him with a little more caution than he had displayed previously.
“I don’t think I told you,” he mentioned towards the end of the meal, “that I scared a lady with Grandpa last week.”
“With Grandpa?” I questioned his sentence structure. “Grandpa helped you scare a lady?”
“Sure,” he responded without even a pause. “Grandpa hid in the bushes and jumped out at her and she released a not-so-manly squeal.”
And I was in giggles and tears again.
We entertain each other pretty well, I guess. Not sure that’s a bragging point. Especially as he tells me I’m broken.
But I still hear that manly squeak now and then. And when Younger recognizes my quiet giggling, he hollers, “It wasn’t that funny, Mom.”
Then why am I still laughing?