Once, when Cristina was 5 and we were still freaked out about how to raise a child with special needs, a psychologist gave us devastating news. She began by explaining that the results of our daughter’s IQ test showed significant intellectual challenges. In some areas, she had the mental reasoning of a 2-year-old.
But that wasn’t the bad part.
The real ax dropped when she told us Cristina showed great difficulty interpreting humor.
My husband Javier and I sat blinking like two clowns at a funeral. The thought of our daughter missing her funny bone was too much to take in. Everybody knows that when you’re just 6, it’s a good knock-knock joke that really matters.
I didn’t question the test results. For one thing, who had the time? Like a lot of parents new to the world of special education, I was buried in the quicksand of individual education plans, specialists and advocacy. All my effort went into mastering jargon and, frankly, into worrying over how to help my future curmudgeon.
Luckily, Cristina and my husband had other plans.
It was Javier who figured out what to do when I wasn’t looking. I think he found so many things about Cristina difficult back then, especially compared to our other two children, who seemed typical in every way. Her physical needs, her negativism, the very limited way she used words. It was also hard to get past the hard shell of protection I put around her. I needed to make every word and action into a therapeutic teaching moment; he just wanted to see her laugh. And so, in a stroke of genius, he left me to my parenting books and support group meetings, and instead channeled his inner Lou Costello for help.
It started slowly enough … he started laughing when she snipped off her bangs on picture day or stole her kindergarten teacher’s car keys. Then came The Three Stooges marathons, silly songs, sticking his tongue out when I wasn’t looking. It was basic middle school male comedy, all of which Cristina soaked up.
In time, their relationship evolved, not on heartfelt talks or sweet moments with picture books, but on funnyman gags that left them both completely satisfied. Even now, watching them relate is like watching stand up comedy.
Here’s a typical exchange, like their daily greeting: “Hey there, Pumpkin Muffin,” he begins.
Cristina offers a fake glare and says, “Call me that again and see what happens.”
He’s quick to respond: “That Again and See What Happens.”
It cracks them up every time.
To my own discredit, I am a bit of a killjoy at times like these.
“You’re creating a monster,” I complain when these exchanges go public. “She doesn’t know when to shut it off! She’ll sound rude, and it’s all your fault!” I point to the fact that she calls him “That One” at parent teacher conferences and tosses out demands like, “Gimme some moo-lah, Sugar Daddy.” I’ve been brought to a blush more times than I’d like to admit.
But Javier just shrugs. “Who cares?”
It’s not such a high price in his book, especially when the payoff is so great. When his keys are in the lock, Cristina isn’t at the TV ignoring him. She’s already waiting for him at the door, hungry for the next gag. And recently, when she took a scary spill in the shower, it was Javier who got her laughing through bloody teeth as he helped the doctor assess for a concussion.
I once believed the world had played a cruel joke on us. But, after all this time, I see that we can all rewrite our own punch lines. I found out that the ability to find laughter in a tough situation evolves slowly and sweetly, like deep love.
“Why are you doing that?” I whisper as Cristina ties her dad’s shoelaces together for the hundredth time. Javier is snoring on the couch, but we both see the smile on his lips.
Cristina just giggles and waits. I move out of the way to give him room. After all, in a few seconds, it’ll be his cue.
