11

YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS

“Endless stairs.” The kids loved it. I loved it. Whenever Dan did “endless stairs,” it was endless laughter, guaranteed. The kids were in bed by eight, teeth brushed and in pajamas. After singing, they could read until 8:30, then kisses and lights out. The stragglers would grab a last minute bathroom run or glass of water, followed by that slightly charged, artificial silence before a big family falls asleep. Dan would take Charlie outside for a short walk, then come back in and climb the stairs.

Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. Half way up, he’d take three steps back down, then up four stairs, same cadence, same creak. Down five, up three, never faster, never slower, until Ruby would call out, “Dad!” Then Susie, “Dad!” Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. Jimmy and Anthony, sharing a room, yelling in unison, “Dad!” Creak. Creak. Jason finally, “Dad!” Creak. Creak. “Dad! Dad!”

Then silence. Dan was motionless on the stairs, everyone breathless, waiting, baiting. Suddenly, 200 pounds of adoptive Dad would crash up the remaining stairs and run down the hallway into a dark, but random, room. Everyone was shrieking, terrified it would be them, disappointed if it wasn’t. Dan would wrestle them, tickle them, stuff their pillows under their nightshirts and move on to the next room. Dan would wish them goodnight, then sneak one last pillow throw. Dan would come into our bedroom, his hair all messed up, smiling, while the kids would sort out their bedding, giggling, “Hee hee hee. Dad. Hee hee.”

The biggest laughs came when Dan would get Jimmy going at the dinner table. Dan and Jimmy sat at opposite ends of the table, silent bookends, eating quietly, watching the dinner drama playing out. There was constant conversing, giggles, at times arguing, with me directing. “Pass those rolls, Susie, and watch those elbows. Keep eating Anthony; easy on the butter there, Miss R.” Without warning, Jimmy would erupt in uncontrollable laughter, dropping his fork and grabbing a napkin, foodstuffs escaping his mouth and nose. Dan had caught Jimmy’s eye, and then raised his eyebrows and stared at him. That’s all it took to get Jimmy laughing, swaying back and forth, struggling to stay on his chair while the whole table was laughing at him laughing. Finally, finally it would taper off and everyone would compose themselves and get back to eating. Ruby would sigh, “That was some good times.” Dan would wait for the first full silence then say, “Whew!” and the whole thing would start up again, Jimmy swaying in his chair, head back, doubled over, grabbing his stomach.

After dinner, we would retire to the living room for the Dan and Anthony show. The stars would enter with a slow, but breakneck, Charlie Chaplin chase around the couch, both of them up on their toes, laughing, with Anthony screaming, “I’m going to get you, Dad!” Sure enough, Anthony would catch him, the both of them landing on the couch, Dan pretending to struggle beneath Anthony’s twenty-eight pounds. Then he’d fold Anthony in half, upside down and Anthony would scream, laughing, “Mom! Help! Help!” I’d say, “It can’t be helped, Anthony,” and all the kids would shout, “It can’t be helped, Anthony!” Dan would let him go and the climbing would start all over again.

* * *

Humor is very important, and should be taken very seriously. I weighed heavily which of my comedic devices would be most effective in fulfilling the new “keep them laughing” mandate. Roughhousing was out. I couldn’t engage the children physically in the way Dan could; I wasn’t strong enough, and I was already being attacked daily. Scatological humor, arguably the highest form of humor, had always been my go to; loaded with universal appeal and sound effects, the bathroom is a veritable dumping ground of timeless classics. I decided to pass on that approach, fearing the children were too young to navigate the fine line between sophistication and vulgarity. Besides, Anthony was already working the angle with his nightly bathroom reports to the dinner table: “Big! Big!” always a winner, as was my personal favorite: “Raisins!”

I decided to go with “crazy mom.” I started flipping their pancakes and French toast at them from eight feet away. “No, Mom! No!” Already airborne, “Oops, too late!” I told them I was training their reflexes. Grabbing plates, lunging, screaming, and scrambling, they always managed to catch them. And if they didn’t, Charlie had a great breakfast.

As the children came into the kitchen for a snack, they would find me, back turned to them, talking on a banana as if it were a phone. I would wink, “Mm hm . . . mm hm . . . why yes, she just walked in! Hold on a second,” then hand the banana to them, “Honey, it’s for you.” First they rolled their eyes, but soon started playing along. “Hello? Yes, this is Susie . . . Yes, I agree she is completely crazy.” I put M&Ms on the broccoli-and-sausage pizza. “Mom! You don’t put candy on pizza!” I looked concerned, “What? What are you talking about?” Pointing, “Mom! The M&MS!” I pretended not to see any. “What are you talking about?”

I would play popular music in the car and start nodding my head in time with the music, working a slow shimmy while driving safely. “Mom! Please stop, you’re embarrassing us!” Perfect. Next, I would start gently pumping the breaks in time to the music as we approached a stop, the laws of physics making movers of them all. “Jimmy’s dancing, what’s the problem?” Jimmy, sitting in the back seat, stone faced and looking out the window would try not to smile as his head and torso pulsed forward and back. “He’s feelin’ it!”

Laundry was a limitless source of material. “Mom, have you seen my pink hoodie?” I would come upstairs either wearing the item, way too tight, and hand them a pair of Anthony’s underwear, “Here you go!” or if the request was underwear-related, I would put said underwear on my head and shrug, “‘Can’t find it!” I would throw soft things at them: Anthony’s stuffed panda, socks, a loaf of bread. After checking on them in their rooms at night, I would kiss them goodnight and leave the room through their closet door. I’d wink at them before closing the door behind me, cup of tea in hand, and then shut the door. I’d wait for about a minute and then come back out, looking embarrassed, and try to sneak away.

The only thing better than getting a kid laughing is having them make you laugh. To positively affect an adult is hugely empowering for a kid. I encouraged my kids to make me laugh, tell me knock-knock jokes, make animal sounds, setting them up for one-liners. If their joke didn’t work, I would moan and start laughing anyway, “Oh man! That was the WORST!” They could tell I was enjoying them because, well, I was. I left props out and laughed at the jokes they didn’t know they were making. “Sweetie, you just made a joke! You said these hard-boiled eggs were hard to beat. Get it? Hard to beat?” Wait for it. . . . “Oh, yeah! Wow, I was funny!”

Still, the house remained incredibly strict. Rules were consistently enforced and a baseline of behavior was maintained or the child would be put in timeout. Humor made the good times better and the bad times shorter. After a violent outbreak, a joke was better than a hug.

* * *

We don’t have any baby pictures of our kids, no baby blankets or tiny shoes. Or memories, for that matter. So birthdays are a big deal for our family, as we celebrate and compensate for the mysteries surrounding their births. The birthday kid gets to picks the menu, the games, the guests, and the gifts. Piñatas, cartoon themes, pin the tail, treasure hunt, Twister—whatever they wanted. I had one request for “chess” under games. Really? All right then. I borrowed the regulation sets and timers from the library chess club, and we set up tournament style tables on the porch. I was unsure it would work but the guests, including our incredibly supportive adult neighbors, played chess all afternoon; playing, watching, coaching. Chess as a party game. Who knew?

We are a birthday machine. Birthday cakes are made from Rice Krispies treats. The child chooses the shape. We vary the recipe to match the engineering demands; you need structural integrity for a free standing air foil on a formula race car or the sharp dorsal fin on a shark. Dan and I make these cakes together: he shapes the cakes and I frost them. Over the years we’ve made musical instruments—a grand piano, a violin, and a horn of course—topographically correct mountain ranges, a chess set with board and pieces, sports gear, trains, planes, automobiles, and an array of historical landmarks.

Jimmy’s birthday is in early November, just as we are coming down off our Halloween sugar high. For this first birthday upstate, the birthday boy wanted sushi, root beer, pasta carbonara, and General Tso’s chicken for dinner. And for a game, he wanted to bob for apples. The temperature was dropping throughout the day and as the hour of bobbing approached, I cornered Dan, “It’s too cold to bob for apples. We need to regroup.” Dan nodded, “I’ll take care of it.” He slipped away while Jimmy opened presents and the kids had cake and root beer floats, which Anthony called, “root beer floaters!” Ew! Gross!

We went outside with our bags of Granny Smiths to find a canoe filled with warm water. Dan had run a hot water hose from the laundry room. I was moved by this, by this canoe full of warm water on this cold birthday. This solution defines my husband: practical in his impracticalness, a romantic answer to a technical problem. I looked at him across the noisy green lawn, past the children floating apples in the steam. He was standing back, arms folded, watching the kids. He looked up and saw me, raised his eyebrows, smiling. I smiled back.

The kids were waiting for me, kneeling, leaning against the canoe with their heads up, hands behind their backs. I looked down at my watch and shouted, “Ready? Go!” They had three minutes to bite into as many apples as they could and pull them out. I laughed at their laughter, their joy, their splashing. I laughed at myself, my marriage, my love.