The Comedian

No. This is not a post about Edward Blake (for the two people reading who would get that reference/joke). Rather, I was inspired by a recent Baby Center e-mail I received, the subject of which was comedy. And how the life of a 2-year-old can be exactly that. That even when being deadly serious, kids at this age are often nothing short of hilarious in all that they do.

And this more than applies to the Doozer. He seems to be a natural ham at times, the designated class clown of our family, but it's often the most unintentional humor that is the funniest.

Like when we drive past a Big Boy restaurant and he points out the Big Boy statue, holding up his "hambagunga." Or when he points to his Santa Claus Pez dispenser and tells us, in all sincerity, that it's his "best buddy." Or upon arriving at the grocery store, informing his mother at the top of his lungs that "we need to buy guacamole!" And when he asked his mother why she was not eating grapes at lunch, she informed him that she had saved the last grapes in the house just for him because she knew how much he enjoyed them. To which, he replied, "That's okay, Mama. I forgive you."

Lately, he's adopted sophisticated phrases in his vocabulary, adding unnecessary, linguistic flourishes to simple statements. (It's possible he is actually mocking us and our highfalutin' manner of speaking—but I hope not.) Sample phrases include "Yes, indeed, Dada" or "I certainly did enjoy that." Why does he talk this way?

Sample conversation from just this evening:

Me: Did you pee in your diaper?

Him: Obviously I did.

Where does this stuff come from?

Now he's "reading" his storybooks to us, using the same inflections and accents and rhythm that we use. (Again, it's possible he's mocking us, but I really hope that's not the case.)

There are other times when the miniature comedian is not that funny, when he's doing something that we don't approve of and yet it's still funny. Trying to keep a straight face while also attempting to instill discipline severely damages one's credibility as a convincing authoritarian. But sometimes, you just can't help it.

Perhaps the most amusing "bit" in his current repertoire is the screaming, death-metal rendition of "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep." Sometimes he will sing it normally, in the dulcet tones of a sweet little toddler. But other times, this . . . voice comes out of him that is difficult to describe. Seriously, he sounds like Lemmy, like he's had a steady diet of Jack and unfiltered cigarettes for thirty years and his voice is a busted, ear-splitting howl. When in reality, the hardest thing he's ingested is some watered-down apple juice. We imagine it comes from letting him watch this:

But at the same time, there is almost no reasonable explanation for this transformation. It's like he's possessed. And much as we'd prefer he doesn't completely shred his vocal chords by age three, we can't help but collapse in fits of uncontrollable laughter when he does that.

"That was funny," the Doozer says, recognizing the sounds of laughter. "I was funny about that."

Yes, son. Yes, you were.