I wrote up a large-ish posting for one of the 3WA forums, then realized it would be perfect journal fodder. So here you go:

I’ve always been your basic easily-amused borderline-immature type. Why, just the other day I scored 69% pure on a 500-question purity test. Oh, the irony!

Spoonerisms (“scooter crew,” mwahahaha!) have always been part of my stock in trade, as are cheap puns and sex-based humor. Making fun of road signs and reader boards is a hobby. (On the side of a U-Haul building, where an “H” had gone missing: “Custom Itches.” Priceless.)

And then I became a father. And my children learned to speak. And life became ever so much more amusing!

We call them chipmunks, by the way, not farts. No, I don’t remember how that started.

I honestly, truly believe that my ability to act silly with my kids and bring out the silliness in them is my strongest parental skill. Let’s face it, my wife and I are both scarred survivors of childhood, having been unpopular introverted types. It’s painfully obvious that our son is a true child of ours, and so we are doing everything in our power to give him the confidence (and sense of humor) to help him survive what will unquestionably be his toughest years. Encouraging the responsible use of his remarkable powers of comedy is part of that preparation.

(In the past six months, I don’t think I’ve gotten the last word in. Not once. He’s ten years old and already funnier than his dad. I try to contain my jealousy…)

As for the little girl… we don’t know where she came from or how. She’s one of those instant charmers, a naturally gifted social goddess who has almost no enemies but creates enemies among those who vie for her favors. She’s nine going on fifteen. Whee.

This has wandered wildly OT, but let me try to get back to the point.

Among the dozens of silly names and games are Meep and Koosh, being a finger to the tip of the nose and a flat hand on the top of the head respectively. Random meeps and kooshes are part of the repertoire of affection in our household.

And then one day my daughter, the one who had never before shown signs of incipient comedic chops, got her hands on the Nerf “baseball bat,” bopped me on the top of the head with it and announced, “I am the Exe-Koosh-ener!”

I couldn’t see for the tears in my eyes after that one. Ah, was ever a father more proud of his progeny?
You’re so Immature!