Walk the Line

I went to my friend’s house yesterday, for her twin daughters’ birthday party, and I relaxed at an event for the first time in I don’t even know how long. I’ve been in a sort of “birthday party hell” for the last couple of months. The kids have been invited to all of the places that kids love as much as parents hate (in other words, anywhere that has tickets, pizza, and things that go “bing!”), and I’ve been making hours of small talk with people I don’t know and will most likely never get to know. I finally understand the value of going through sorority rush in college. And here I always just thought that was a week of my life I’d never get back.

Anyway, my Chuck E. Cheese nightmare came to an end yesterday at my friend’s house. The kids played outside, made their own party favors, and ate homemade cake. I sat around with grown-ups who I knew and liked. And even Tenzin, the party recluse, came with us because he wanted to see everyone. It was like breathing pure oxygen (Unlike Newt’s last birthday party, which was complete with tickets, pizza, and things that go “bing!” At least our friends were at Newt’s party for support, so I suppose the oxygen quality was more like jogging in L.A.).

It was an important day because I’ve been particularly grumpy lately. Not much is funny, most things are irritating, and everyone generally needs to “settle down.” This bums me out because it always makes me think that the kids will look back on their youth and remember a stern, annoyed, tired mother who never laughed. And there’s a lot to laugh about. I know this. I just can’t seem to find the funny.

So I’ve been cherishing the moments that get me to smile lately. And, in my typically over-analytical way, I’ve been trying to figure out what those things are and why they cut the mustard. Case in point. . .

We were standing in line at Costco yesterday, and I turned to see a couple who was watching Elfie — she had herself jammed underneath the shopping cart so she could sit down. They were cracking up. They may also have been cracking up because she was wearing: a short-sleeve purple shirt; a short pink, green, and white skirt; chocolate brown leggings; yellow tie-dyed socks; and red sparkle shoes. Incidentally, this was after I’d convinced her to wear more than shorts underneath her skirt, being that it’s still winter (the shorts were brown with pink polka dots). When I saw them laughing, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. The kids noticed this and asked me what was so funny. I, of course, told them it was Elfie — who is crazy (an explanation that was accepted due to the fact that this is general knowledge in our house).

So why wasn’t Elfie funny before I noticed the couple? Why wasn’t Elfie funny, for instance, when she dropped her pizza on the floor a half-an-hour earlier? Or when she begged to go to every single food sampling station in the warehouse? Why did it take outsiders to bring all of this hilarity to light?

Sometimes it takes looking at your life through someone else’s eyes to see the pure ridiculousness of it all. Years ago, my sleep-deprived, on-the-edge friend was driving all over town, searching for grape Pedialyte to give to her puking 2-year-old daughter who hadn’t had any liquids in about 48 hours. My friend had tried every flavor, and she knew if this one failed, her next stop was probably the hospital. When the kid pushed it away, my friend buried her face in her hands and cried, “Why won’t you drink it?!” Suddenly, she heard her 4-year-old son’s voice from the back of the van: “Because it taste-es like shit.”

I always think of her story when I’m teetering on that fine line between getting so pissed off that I turn into some form of the Incredible Hulk and laughing so hard that the family thinks I need to be institutionalized (both of which, I suppose, require some sort of restraints and/or sedation). My Pedialyte friend, who is my mothering mentor, of course starting laughing. I try to do this. Really I do. But it’s so, so hard. Some days, I feel like my face is made of concrete and isn’t capable of cracking a smile.

I’m always telling the kids that there’s a fine line between laughter and pain. A kick to the groin isn’t funny when it’s happening to you, but it’s apparently hysterical when shown 50 different ways on America’s Home Videos. Especially if there’s a wiffleball bat or a trampoline involved.

So there you have it. Life’s greatest mysteries explored: most of us are just a groin kick away from crazy. The challenge is, do we let it ruin the day, or do we see the funny and send it in for a million dollars? I know what I’d like to choose. I just don’t know how to bust out of the concrete and get there.