The Legacy

On Christmas Eve, after the children had opened their gifts, it was time for the adults to throw dice and choose one of the fine, tasteful gifts piled in the center of the room--good stuff such as a capsule of emergency underwear, fake vomit, a pink plastic tiara, the ever-popular fake dog poop, and the worst Mexican movie ever made.  One of my elegant contributions to the pile was technology's most amazing creation: a self-inflating whoopee cushion.

When the gift was opened, and oddly enough I managed to get it, and tried out, every kid in the house suddenly appeared as if convoked by magic.  There is nothing like flatulence to cause grandkids to gather round.

They took the cushion off, and throughout the house the same event was lived over and over again: a total silence, then a magnificent emision by the whoopee cushion, and a huge explosion of delighted childhood laughter.  Apparently they tried out the cushion in every room and on every surface, vying for the best effects.

Karina and I, who were more or less incapacitated by laughter as well, became quite philosophical.

"Your legacy," said Karina, wiping tears of laughter from her face.

"Yeah," I said, "a couple of whoopee cushions and some fake shit!"

The thing is, it is quite true.  If a parents' job is to transmit to their children the ruling values of the culture, then ours as grandparents is to make sure the civilization process doesn't go too far.  Our main concern should be the preservation of silliness in all its life-saving glory.  My office has been populated by patients who may have had all kinds of fairly unique problems, but a lack of silliness has been a common trait shared by most.

Silliness can sometimes get you through very tough times, so here's to my legacy: children exploding with laughter, a pool of fake vomit on the kitchen floor, and the song of the whoopee cushion.

I couldn't have asked for more.  Life is complete.