You Don't Have to Look Far

How to have a better sense of humor in 2025

I couldn’t imagine who was knocking on our front door.

All the guests had arrived for our gathering and the No Solicitors sign had eliminated unwanted intrusions long ago.

We were perched on couches facing the fireplace in our living room with our carefully selected friends, proudly showing them how we had cleverly redacted the word “naughty” from one of the Curious George books with white-out and replaced it with the word “nutty” because we deemed it more appropriate. Our gaggle of children were in our toddler-safe backyard while the parents took turns hovering watching over them.

The parents we associated with had to be as concerned as we were with what our children read, heard, watched, and ate. Our exceptional attention to what they consumed was only matched by our management of their conduct.

“No,” we’d correct them. “We don’t say ‘I hate you’ in our house. We say, ‘I feel mad when you kick me repeatedly in the shins.’”

How they expressed their feelings, worked out their difficulties, shared their toys, and—once older—helped out around the house were all targets of our high expectations. I’m still mercilessly teased by my adult children about the poster-board spreadsheet I tacked up in the hallway and the assigned chores that would garner or lose them quarters when completed or left undone.

We were conscious parenting, you see.

This was the phrase used in our circle to describe the corrective measures we applied to counter the modern-world’s cluelessness about how to honor the essential spirit of children.

If there had been a legal requirement to identify all the ingredients in order of quantity that comprised the stew of our parenting, “perfection” would have been listed as the number one component by psychic volume.

We socialized while the kids played under our rotating watch; much of the conversation focused on the great job we were doing as stewards of the pure souls that God had entrusted to us.

It was my turn to monitor the kids at play, but a question about time and attention management came up and given my passion for the topic I weighed in at some length and then we all conversed in depth.

Satisfied I had sufficiently held forth on the subject, the doorbell then rang, and as I mentioned, I couldn’t guess who it might be.

Approaching from the front hallway I could see an elderly man and woman I did not recognize, framed by the French windows on the top half of our eggplant colored door. They reminded me of the famous American Gothic portrait featuring the dour faces of a couple standing in their yard holding a pitchfork between them. I opened the door at the speed of slow curiosity. The woman, however, immediately questioned me about an object they also held between them, previously concealed by the lower part of the door on my approach.

“Is this your son?” she inquired.

Looking down I saw our three-year-old boy with a proud smile on his face—contentedly holding the hands of his surrogate caregivers who had found him at the end of the block. Being attentive neighbors who lived up the street, they recognized him from previous strolls past our house and were now kindly returning him to our watch.

Apparently, I had neglected to properly latch the back gate to our yard. Having been busy waxing eloquent about the high art of parental attentiveness, our kid took advantage of the momentary security lapse and made a dash for the exciting free world.

In retrospect, the most notable element of this incident was the lack of emotional display attached to it. I remember that I did not have a sense of humor about it, nor did any of our guests remark upon or find the juxtaposition of my mismanaged attention and the subject of our conversation to be hilarious, ironic, or worthy of mention.

I also recall the complete absence of judgment on the part of the elderly couple. They brought him back like it was no big deal, as though this sort of thing happens all time. I feel reasonably certain that, whether to their detriment or credit, the idea of notifying child services had not been discussed between them—but I was not able to dismiss my negligence as easily.

This was far from the first or last time I’ve become aware of the oceanic expanse that yawns between my oft professed ideals and the reality of how I show up in life. In fact, it is the very pet peeves and convictions I am most vocal about that I so often catch myself perpetuating out of the corner of my eye.

I judge those who speed through a yellow traffic light rather than erring on the side of caution, scoff at those who become grossly inattentive in public while talking loudly on their phones, and feel critical of those who fail to pay simple and proper attention to their kids.

An exaggerated sensitivity to the shortcomings of others that match our own weaknesses is called projection in psychological parlance. My capacity for this sleight of mind is like having my own IMAX screen and surround sound system in my head, convincingly immersed in the high-definition, sub-standard behavior of others while I run red lights and leave the back gate open to toddlers.

In short, I am a ridiculous human who deserves to be lampooned, laughed at, and even celebrated for the sheer entertainment factor of my existence. It took many years and repeated invitations on the part of my wife to develop a better sense of humor about the eccentricities, idiosyncrasies, and neuroses of being human.

She was right, of course.

I now regularly point out her foolishness.

Happy New Year my friends.

Thank you for subscribing to Honestly Human this year and for your good company in the form of comments, shares, and the conversations we’ve had about personal storytelling at our live events.

May you live a story worthy life in 2025 and share it for the benefit of others.