The other day I found myself laughing so hard at one of Tiddles McGee’s tantrums in the schoolyard that a passing parent thought I was crying and offered to help. Quickly wiping away my tears, I had to explain that I was merely laughing at my son and gestured over to where he was standing, sobbing his little heart out.
The minute the words spilled out, I realised that it didn’t Look Good and may possibly somewhat affect my chances of being voted Mother of the Year (but not “Hottest Mommy Blogger” in the Bloggers Choice awards, right? Have you voted yet? Well, have you? And yes, for your information, I did have to slip that in. I mean, c’mon! There has to be more than sixteen people on this planet who think I’m Hot. For one thing, I live in Australia where the climate is considerably warmer than other parts of the world, such as Antartica, for example. Which has a transient population of 5000. Why aren’t they voting? Not to rub it in or anything, but I am way hotter than them and it would be factually incorrect of them not to recognise me as being such. But I digress.)
Anyway, back to the schoolyard tantrum… In my defence, it was the kind of nervous laughter that I very often resort to when caught in an embarrassing situation, which I’m very often in. So it’s not surprising that I give the appearance of being generally quite jovial.
People therefore are always saying to me: “You’re forever laughing and joking, NDM. Why are you so happy all of the time? What’s your secret? Please tell us, NDM, please please please?”
And I reply, all lightness and air, “It’s not called happiness, it’s called hysteria. Deal with it.”
The people usually leave me alone after that.
Now, I was planning to end this post at this point because my husband told me that my posts were too long. But when I showed the above to him, he said “Is that it? Isn’t there any more?” And I reminded him of what he’d advised me.
“Oh don’t listen to my advice!” he exclaimed.
“But is that advice?” I asked “To not listen to your advice?”
I was worried we were about to get caught in one of those Classic Paradoxical Situations where he’d have to smack me across the face with a stick in order to “help me abandon logic”. (Which, according to my husband, is what zen masters do to their pupils. I’m going on his word now, which, according to him, isn’t worth much and… arghhh. There we are again. Caught in another paradox).
In any case, what my husband was failing to realise with all this stick-slapping talk was that I had abandoned logic a long time ago. Around the same time that I lost sight of my waistline and lost control of my bladder. Around the same time that I became a parent and became permanently hysterical. No surprises there, then.