I was saying goodnight to my older 14 year old son last night in his room, when he and I both heard a scary, freakish sound coming from the kitchen. I realized it was our ailing, stinky garbage disposal, which I call simply, The Pig. I giggled and said to my son, “That’s just your step dad grinding up small children in the disposal.” He started to laugh so hard at me and all I could think was: “How twisted and sick am I? Is he going to be like this when he’s an adult?”
Maybe that’s not a bad thing: my ability to find humor in things has kept me afloat during some of the worst years of my life (so far). Nearly six years post-divorce, I have, finally learned to laugh at some of it. Some parts will never be funny (crying in a small toilet closet in my house so that my kids wouldn’t hear me, comes to mind). But other parts, like the ridiculousness of what’s mine and what’s his (who the hell CARES about a colander?), and calling my best friend just to hear her say, one more time, “He’s such an ASS,” still make me smile.
Are senses of humor genetic? My siblings and I all love Monty Python. That humor is black and white: you love it or you think it’s juvenile and pointless. My older son loves it.
So here we go.