I started one about how uncomfortable funerals and death in general make me feel. You can find book after book on how to deal with the loss of a loved one, but there’s very little information out there on the best ways to comfort someone suffering a loss. From personal experience, I can attest that humor can often be a magical elixir to soothe an aching heart…sometimes it’s easier to swallow with a little alcohol.
The only caveat to my theory is that you must have the right timing. For instance, I don’t understand why people say, “Doesn’t he/she look great?” Especially if this is the first time you are seeing the deceased. Recently, someone said this to me and I blurted out, “This is the first time I’ve seen him, but he looks just like the pictures.” Under the right circumstances, that might have been gotten a chuckle.
The next one started because I was angry at a child who said something nasty to one of mine. The words were there, and it was funny, but my husband reminded me that once printed it makes me look a tad irrational calling someone under 10 a mean little doo-doo head or insinuating that I have Santa on speed dial, and this child is getting nothing for Christmas. Nothing, I tell ya.
Then the there’s the one that almost made the cut. A few weeks ago, I was checking my teenager’s Instagram account. The next day, I picked him up from school. He shut the car door and said, “Mom, if you are going to check my Instagram account, log out of my account before you start commenting on my friends’ pictures.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You commented on a picture of Kaleb running at the last meet.”
“So. I was trying to be encouraging.”
“It was under my name.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because you said, ‘Kaleb, you look awesome! You are an amazing runner!’ It looked like I left it.”
That’s it. I’m stuck. Stuck in a land of 1,000 stories and nothing to write about. At this very moment my children just started fighting. I’ve had to retreat to my bathroom to finish writing this. I’m even ignoring the loud crash followed by a hush, two sets of feet hurrying up the stairs and the gentle closing and locking of my oldest son’s bedroom door.
I think about ignoring it completely and letting my husband deal with whatever mess has been made then I realize this could be my shot for a quirky little story about my boys. But it’s not worth it. I just don’t have time for the nervous breakdown I’ll deserve if they’ve broken another piece of my china.
Comments? You can email Becky Andrews at firstname.lastname@example.org. Andrews and Angel Kane are the brains behind Telling Tales, a weekly column in The Democrat.