One of my very favorite things about my relationship with Clay is how playful he is. Now, I mean that in an entirely appropriate-to-talk-about-way, even considering that my mom, his mom, AND his daughter all read this blog. So.
What I mean is that he’s funny. He makes me laugh. While I make dinner he stands there, in my way, cracking stupid jokes about everything and nothing while I nudge him to one side and laugh and try to cook.
I don’t think I can quite do justice to his style of humor, but I’ll try.
In the afternoon, when he gets home from work, after the flurry of greetings in the kitchen, he invariably heads to the bedroom to change his clothes. As often as not, Carmi is asleep at the foot of the bed. When he sees her, Clay calls out to no one in particular, “Dead dog! Dead dog in our room!”
Or, when we’re driving around, anytime he sees a plane coming in for a landing, he hollers, “Crashing plane! The plane is crashing!”
What makes that funny and not disturbing is his tone of voice. He’s not in the slightest scared or upset sounding. He sounds more like he’s announcing, “Oh, look, a parade! See the clowns?”
On second thought, perhaps that is exactly what makes it disturbing.
Whatever. *I* find him hysterical. The boys, who think Clay is just above Superman and ice cream on the scale of awesomeness, have nonetheless learned to roll their eyes at him and many of his jokes. I, on the other hand, giggle like an addle-brained school girl, clasp my hands under my chin, and gaze up at him in wonder and joy. He is the light in my days.
Last night he was paying bills. And when he is seated at the table, surrounded by papers, making marks in his ledger, he morphs from my light-hearted laugh a minute guy into Spock. My charming comments and flirtatious overtures are met with blank stares. I even tried doing a few cheers, thinking he must enjoy being the only man on the block with a cheerleader for paying the bills. He sighed and said mildly,
“You know, if I could just concentrate on THIS, I would be done sooner.”
“You’re no fun.”
“So it seems.”
“Did you see that the dog is dead?”
Fine. I can donate one evening a month to the cause of having the bills paid. I knew the next day would dawn bright and happy, and the Clay I know and love would be back.
The next afternoon, however, he called from work. Disaster! Plague! Pestilence! He would be stuck there for hours to come.
Fortunately, it’s not like I didn’t have a source of humor, because a friend of Tre’s had joined us for dinner. The four boys were well neigh hysterical with their witty repartee. For instance, there was the song about all the many things one of them ate on a cracker, which I would repeat for you here, but I would have to pound myself upon the forehead with a ball peen hammer for a few minutes first, and I haven’t the heart.
Whenever they weren’t sharing such amusing insights, they were racing around the house, bellowing. No activity was too mundane to require anything less then a full throated yell.
“IS IT TIME FOR SUPPER?”
“SOON, I THINK!”
And me with neither chocolate OR Clay in the house.
Life is unfair.
Eventually, after working many extra hours in the rain and missing dinner, Clay came home. He joined me in ushering the boys through bedtime, then we went back upstairs. I fixed him a much-deserved plate of food and sat down to
be amused chat with my beloved.
Wouldn’t you know it? He was tired. Worn out. Warm and loving and kind as always, but just not “on.”
Life is SO unfair.