A Little Funny

Here is an old story from 2003 when Younger would have been four years old . . .

It had been a long day. And it was only 12:30. So, when we exited the laundromat and climbed around the piles of freshly cleaned sheets, blankets and comforters, neither Younger nor I was in a good humor. He, however, decided to comment on mine.

“Mom,” he said as I buckled him into his seat, his eyes deceptively innocent. “How come people aren’t funny anymore after they get big?”

“I don’t know, Younger, I think I know a few funny people who are big,” I said, irritated.

He waited until I had slid under the steering wheel before continuing. “When I get as big as you – when I get that big, I won’t be funny anymore.”

And now I felt as large as a house and also rather dull. “Sure thing, Younger.”

“Mom, how long do I have left to be funny anyway?”

Well, considering we had just entered noon traffic and were a couple of miles from home . . .

I gave him fifteen minutes.


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