BELLY LAUGHTER

BELLY LAUGHTER
(c) Jayson Slade 2010

I keep thinking I’m a grown up, but I’m not. I still laugh and cut up, but probably not enough. Not all the time like my daughter. I'd like to get just as giddy as my 10 year old, but it doesn't always work out that way. Most of the time I only wish I could be more like her. That’s my goal in life. I just want to be like my 10 year old. She has taught me more than any one person ever has. It’s quite simple. She just takes it all in stride. She’s happy when things are great and she’s sad when things are not. She never gets too awfully strung out in either of those two directions because she is smart enough to know that the other is just around the corner. Resilient? Nah. Brilliant? Maybe. Most things don’t turn out the way she wants them, so she hangs a sad face and in not time flat she’s back around the other corner making herself happy again. Why is it so easy for a 10 year old with limited knowledge and experience, yet it’s so hard for a man of nearly 40 who’s been around the block a few times? I noticed that I should be learning from what she’s teaching me about three years ago. She was just about to turn seven. I was in the living room and she was a few feet away in full earshot in her bedroom. I heard a snicker that became giggling which quickly turned into a belly roll of hysterical laughter. It went on for a minute or two. Almost like she couldn’t stop. Like she was being tickled. Tickled from the inside out. She kept on and on for at least a minute. A minute can be a long time to laugh. You should try it sometime. I was intrigued. It was not very unusual for Hannah to enjoy time in her room. In her space. With her stuff. But to hear her belly laugh was a little more than interesting. She must be looking at a funny book. Or, even more obviously, she must be watching a funny television show or movie. That’s it. She’s probably watching a movie and just got tickled. She got caught up in the misadventures of some pre-teen idol that I really wish didn’t to be quite so sarcastic to be funny. I walked into her bedroom. I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass up. I knew that pretty soon she’d be more grown up than I could want to be and those deep-rooted belly laughs would be a thing of the past. I eased in, not to abruptly interrupt. She saw me approach. We made eye contact. Her ear to ear smile and giggles made her squint. Since we do try to teach respect for each other’s space at our house, I gently knocked alongside her door. She was almost out of breath. Her mouth was wide open and her face was a little pink. She was really worked up. The television was not on. All her books were put away. She was sitting in the floor playing with her cat. What had I missed? I had to ask the question. I wanted to join in. I love to laugh. I really wanted to know what I had missed.

Hey, baby, what in the world is so funny?

She looked back up towards me and in her squint found a way to make eye contact once more.

Oh, nothing… I’m just happy because my cat loves me.

And that was it. That was what I had missed. I had missed what was right there all the time. I know now that it wasn’t really the cat. I realize that it was her allowing everything to be simple enough that the cat was the most amazing thing in the world for that minute. Hannah reached up and gave me a big old hug. One of those hugs that just goes through you when you’re a dad. I didn’t want to let go. But I eventually had to. And when I did. I snickered. My snicker became a giggle. And within moments we were both laughing large. She, because her life was pretty simple. Me, because I was realizing that mine could be too. She, because her cat loved her. Me, because my daughter did the same. Although she’s ten now and quite the pre-teen herself, that childish uncontrollable belly laugh doesn’t peek in quite as often anymore. I think I really miss those the most. But gladly, they have been replaced with visible happy emotions that someone with my limited vocabulary can’t really put into words. That look in her eye when she says “Hey, dad. I love you,” right out of the blue. No motive. No reason. Just because. Those are the best. And how we’ll see that old familiar squinty grin in a few days when Santa comes again. Sometimes I wonder what will replace these happy times down the road. And then I realize it really doesn’t matter. They’ll be great too. Spending my time wondering about the future may just make me miss some of the present. And like they say. It’s called the present because it’s a gift. Today, I’ll take my gift.