Introspection ain't for sissies

I’m beginning to question my admittedly dark sense of humor. I really cannot set boundaries for myself where comedy is concerned. You know how some people say, “Years from now, we’ll look back on this and laugh.”? Well for me, “years from now” is usually about ten minutes. (30 seconds if it involves somebody falling down.)

I come by this trait honestly. My brothers and sister are the same way. We barely made it through the funeral arrangements for our father – that is how despicable we are. The priest was quite at a loss. Don’t get me wrong, we all love Daddy and miss him terribly, but there’s just something in our wiring that wrings the comedy out of just about any situation.

I had the pooey scared out of me about 3 weeks ago when my daughter in New York had a medical emergency. She passed out while substitute teaching a ballet class for inner city kids. She busted her chin open and had to go to the ER for stitches. They also ran a battery of tests to try to diagnose the cause of her fainting. She was upset, we were worried, boyfriend was distraught, etc. Turns out, there was no reason for the faint. They called it vasovagal syncope which sounds lethal so I looked it up online and the entry was: Vasovagal syncope (fainting). Apparently the danger posed by vasovagal syncope is hurting yourself when you hit the floor, or sidewalk, or stairs …

Okay, so last week. My daughter, being of my blood, made a crack about my appearance in a photo I posted in this blog. She remarked that my arm looked fake and jeeringly called me “Wax Arm Mom.” That’s all I needed. I immediately shot off a postcard to her that was a 50’s era black and white photo of three little angelic ballerinas and their equally angelic, young teacher. Above each little tutu’ed cherub I drew a thought balloon. The first one said, “Man, this new sub really blows.” The second one said “Well at least this one’s conscious,” while the third was used to symbolize the trauma inflicted on the poor little kids in my daughter’s class and said “Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place…”

What kind of mother am I? To make fun of my own daughter’s unfortunate incapacitation. God … I suck! Self realization’s a bitch. Now that I’ve recognized this flaw in my character, I’ll change. Right? NOT BLOODY LIKELY!!! I direct your attention, dear reader, to my new slogan, located in the upper right corner of this page. I got it off a bumper sticker.