So, I’m sitting here in my office working on a story when I hear from behind me, “Oh, tartar sauce! I LOST!!” It’s my five-year-old, Cody, who’s playing with his Leapster. Given his high regard for SpongeBob Squarepants, I hear many oaths that I assume come from that show (I’ve personally only seen it a few times). “Oh, barnacles!” is probably his favorite.
This is the first time I’ve heard the tartar sauce one though, and it’s so unexpected, I laugh out loud. Cody looks at me, offended and slightly disdainful. “It’s not funny, Mom!” he says. I instantly feel terrible because I remember being his age and having adults laugh at me, effectively making me feel as big as Plankton on SpongeBob. It’s a horrible feeling, and even though I now understand it, understanding doesn’t erase the injury.
When I was a little older than Cody, I excitedly gave my dad a letter. I painstakingly spelled out “Daddy Ludwig” on the front of the envelope. I was mortified and deeply hurt when he took one look at the envelope and burst out laughing. Of course he didn’t mean to cause me any pain, but I will never forget how terrible I felt. His laugh completely eclipsed my excitement over giving him something special.
Because of that incident, I’ve always tried to stifle my laughs and refrain from smiling when my kids do something cute or funny that they didn’t intend to be cute or funny. I’m not always successful, but I really do try. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for one of those memories of being laughed at.
So, I give Cody a hug and tell him I’m sorry. “It’s just that you’re so funny,” I tell him.
“I am?” He immediately brightens.
“Yes, and I love it when you make me laugh,” I say.
Whew, not too much damage with that one, thankfully. I just hope my kids will someday understand that their adorableness gets to me so much sometimes, I can’t help but laugh or smile.
