Broccoli Happy

My son is a silly boy. He can find a way to laugh at just about anything. He laughs at his toys; he laughs at his breakfast; he laughs with me or his mom or his sister when one of us says something funny. No matter what his mood may have been the moment before, he's always about as ready for a laugh as he is to for a sugar cookie.

And such a laugh the boy has.

Everyone, I believe, has some quality that did not come from their father or their mother or some distant cousin in the old country. Everyone has some gift uniquely given to them. My boy has the sound of his laugh. It sounds like the best day of summer, or the ball that you know is going over the left field fence, or the day you met your best friend. It's indescribable; it's natural and it makes everyone around him fall in love.

"Are you happy," he asks with a big smile when I laugh with him.

"Are you one happy," he'll add "or two or three or four happy."

I'll nod vigorously, and he keeps escalating the count as long as I nod or until he gets tired.

"How many happy are you Daddy," he asks finally.

"I'm broccoli happy," I say on queue (he thinks the word broccoli is funnier than any other word for some reason).

Then he'll laugh so hard he'll fall on to the couch and laugh curled up there.

"You're a silly daddy," he'll say with his beaming smile when he finally catches his breath.

"Yes," I think, "And you're my blessedly silly boy."

Good night.