And then there was the time I laughed after my 3-year old fell

“You’re a jerk!”  I hear Anna tell her father.

I look at myself in the mirror and raise my eyebrows. Yup. She picked that one up from me.

(What? Sometimes he can be a jerk. We all can.)

I walk into the kitchen and Andrew looks at me in a “did you hear that?” kind of a way. I nod silently and resist the urge to laugh.

Laughing at my child seems to be my go-to response lately. Not quite sure why. But it’s my instinctual reaction. Like the time Anna inexplicably launched herself off of her bed into a perfect belly flop onto the hard (yet carpeted) bedroom floor.

“Why did you do that???” I asked her as I quickly enveloped her into a hug. Once I knew she was okay, we cuddled for a moment. She insisted she needed a band-aid, so we went to the bathroom where Andrew met us, concern spread across his face.

“What happened?” he asked me.

“She… she…” I started.  And then I had no other choice but to hug her closely to my chest, her face smooshed up against the side of my neck, my hand holding her head there so she couldn’t move.

So she couldn’t see me laughing.

Oh god. Why am I laughing??

My child could have seriously hurt herself and I’m laughing. What is wrong with me?

The truth is, I think I’ve needed it lately.

Between the rush of daycare, babysitting, getting to the office on time, training for a race, ballet, sports classes, long hours, runny noses, coughing, lack of sleep. It’s all so tiring. I’m wearing down a little bit.

So my body is telling me to relax. To enjoy. To laugh.

And so I do.

I laugh at Anna when her eyes get wide in shock after she toots. I laugh at Lauren walking around the house like a 16-month old with purpose. I laugh at what Anna’s daycare teachers must think of us, as Anna’s obsessed with how “dirty” our house is lately. (My bed is dirty! There’s duck poo on the floor! This house is so dirty!)  (Side note: it is not. There is not. And no, it’s not that bad.)

I laugh at Andrew when he rolls out of bed in the morning, looking like he has no idea what his name is. I laugh at a picture my Mom sends me of herself – one that she took by accident while trying to snap a picture of Lauren. I laugh at how my unwaxed eyebrows remind me of Groucho Marx. I laugh at the silly videos I see on Facebook. At the funny tweets on Twitter.

I laugh because I can’t stomach the stress or bad news anymore.

I laugh because I’m fortunate enough to be able to laugh today.

I laugh until I start to go red-faced. Until my eyes start weeping. Until I look slightly crazy.

And then I stop.

And I feel much better.

I just couldn't resist posting this, Mumsie.