Happy Kids - Not Something You Actually Want

Mrs. Bob thinks I’m a jerk.

Specifically, she thinks I’m a jerk when the kids are having a wonderful time.

Apparently standing in the kitchen staring suspiciously toward the sound of your children laughing isn’t considered “embracing the moment.”

But I’ve been a father long enough to know something Mrs. Bob refuses to accept.

Content kids are good. Happy kids are dangerous.

Content is beautiful.

Content is Wilton sitting quietly playing with something.

Content is Preslow eating berries and talking to a stuffed animal.

Content is both children occupying the same room without anybody screaming, bleeding, climbing furniture or accusing the other one of an international war crime.

I love content.

Happy is different.

Happy is the beginning of a process.

Happy becomes excited.

Excited becomes giddy.

Giddy becomes absolutely cunking stupid.

“Cunking,” by the way, is Preslow’s word.

We’re not entirely sure what it means, but contextually it seems to cover everything from mild disappointment to crimes against humanity.

And I can hear the transition from three rooms away.

Mrs. Bob will be sitting there drinking her coffee.

The kids are laughing.

She’s smiling.

“This is nice.”

And I’m in the other room thinking:

No.

No, it isn’t.

Because the laughter has changed.

It’s gone up an octave.

There are footsteps now.

Something plastic just hit a wall.

Then I hear Preslow yell:

“WILTON! THROW IT!”

And without even seeing what’s happening, I yell:

“WATCH YOUR MOTHER’S COFFEE!”

Mrs. Bob rolls her eyes.

“Oh my God, Bob. They’re fine.”

THUNK.

Silence.

“Mommy?”

Mrs. Bob looks down.

Coffee everywhere.

I slowly appear in the doorway.

I don’t say anything.

That’s important.

Never say anything.

Because Mrs. Bob is already looking at me like she’s married to some blasted woodland oracle who can see five seconds into the future.

And somehow this is my fault.

“Don’t.”

I haven’t said anything.

“Bob. Don’t.”

I’m literally just standing here.

“Wipe that look off your face.”

What look?

Apparently I have a look.

It’s the look of a man who has witnessed this exact sequence of events 4,000 times and has finally achieved the ability to predict household disasters based entirely on the pitch of his children’s laughter.

I’m basically a dad seismograph.

And it drives Mrs. Bob insane.

The kids start chasing each other around the kitchen island.

“Someone’s going to slip.”

“BOB.”

Thirty seconds later.

BANG.

Crying.

Mrs. Bob looks at me.

Now she’s properly pissed off.

Not at the child who just attempted a ninety degree turn in socks at full speed.

At me.

Like I manifested it.

Like somewhere in the woods I’ve got a little cauldron and I’m whispering:

Make Wilton absolutely wipeout near the dishwasher.

I didn’t cause it.

I just know.

I know because children have a very predictable happiness trajectory.

Content > Happy > Excited > Giddy > Uncontrollable > Impact > Crying > Mrs. Bob yelling someone’s full government name.

That’s the cycle.

And every parent knows it.

You can actually hear when your children cross the line.

Normal laughter doesn’t bother me.

But there’s a specific kind of hysterical laughter that immediately makes every dad look up from whatever he’s doing.

That laugh means somebody has removed a cushion from something.

That laugh means a household object is currently being used in a way the manufacturer specifically did not intend.

That laugh means somebody has said:

“Watch this.”

Nothing good has ever happened after a child says “watch this.”

Mrs. Bob says I should let them have fun.

I do.

I want them to have fun.

I want Wilton and Preslow to have the kind of childhood where they laugh until their stomachs hurt.

I want forts.

I want adventures.

I want ridiculous games.

I want them running around the house making memories.

I just know there’s approximately a seven minute window between making memories and needing ice.

So I watch.

Content?

Bob relaxes.

Happy?

Bob smiles.

Giddy?

Bob puts his coffee down.

Hysterical?

Bob starts moving breakable objects to higher ground.

And when Mrs. Bob tells me I’m being ridiculous, I simply wait.

Because somewhere in the house, a ball is already airborne.

And five seconds from now, Mrs. Bob is going to be staring at me over a freshly spilled cup of coffee wondering how the hell I knew.

I always know.

And somehow that just pisses her off more.

Happy children are wonderful.

But giddy has a deductible.