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The Laugh to Die For

My husband gave the fake foot-stamp like he might bolt from his chair after our son whose bare bottom was wagging in the doorway.  Which was enough.  Our son squealed his way to the kitchen.  But returned quickly with his chest still rising and falling fast and his eyes dancing in anticipation.  By which time my husband pounced on his ribs and tickled him right up the stairs.

Only I don’t know the words for that kind of laughter, as it’s the kind that surpasses what you thought was funny.  The kind that even sounds different.  Like you’re in a higher gear, a higher pitch, and there ain’t no stopping until you’re all laughed out.  It’s the laugh you want to free in church, only you can’t.  Cause it’s church.  The kind of laugh that has you thinking you just might die from a split side.  The real deal.  That laugh.

Which was what my kid was doin’ upstairs.  Bustin’ his sides with his dad. 

Then before coming down the stairs my husband said, “Sleep well, Silas.  I’ll most certainly tickle you in the morning.”  And our son raised his head off his pillow, “No, dad, no!”   “Oh yes,” my husband countered.  And then he waited in the hallway for the sure signs of tiny feet.

But they didn’t come.

Instead there was giggling as a little boy whispered with certainty to himself, “my dad’s gonna tickle me in the morning!”


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