Inappropriate Hysterical Laughteritis

         

Let's just assume I was
allowed in the deer enclosure.

   I was a tomboy growing up.  I had an older sister, so all the girly skills were already taken.  She cooked with my mom, while I was out in the garage with my dad pounding nails into a board to make a pretend cash register.  While she was learning to clean; I was learning to mow the grass.

            As a result I got to live on the wild side.  My dad brought me up on the roof while he was installing new shingles.  I was one.  (He says I was in a box, so it was okay. I got stuck in a box a lot.)   He let me make Rice-a-Roni at the hot stove sitting on a stool.  I was four.  He propped me on the railing outside the gorilla enclosure at the zoo.  We'll pretend there weren't signs back then, but I suspect there probably were.   

            I got to ride on the back of his bike without a bike seat or helmet.  One day he was taking me to an evil day care where children were forced to eat peas with plastic silverware (more on this later).  It was winter, but we only had one car at the time.  Not surprisingly, we slipped on the ice and the bike fell over.  I was half trapped under the bike in the snow crying.  My dad was trying to pick up the bike, but he couldn't do it because he was laughing so hysterically. 

            Even though it was a traumatic event, I have never been able to tell the story with the anger it deserves because I start laughing hysterically.  I could tell of 20 other events which all included my dad uncontrollably laughing.  Luckily, it never happened while I was propped up on a railing of a wild animal enclosure.  This inappropriate laughter appears to be a genetic trait.  

            Leaving a lunch date, my 2-year-old ran into the door (um, we also have a clumsy trait).  My friend distracted by the screaming missed her kiddo walk into a puddle in her socks and also begin screaming.  Then getting into the car my 4-year-old somehow wedged her foot under the seat.  I yanked while she screamed.  I excavated the backseat of dolls, coloring books and empty juiceboxes to figure out how she was stuck.  I was laughing so terrifically at this point, I could barely do anything. 

                Oh, the memories!  I hope my girls will laugh when they tell all the stories about their childhood tragedies.  Maybe the memory of me laughing will remind them the situation couldn't have been that bad.