The Anatomy of Laughter.

Mirth is my mother tongue.

Podéis encontrar la versión en castellano aquí.

I swear this is not a parenting post.

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Parenting is the hardest job I’ve ever had. I find myself second-guessing my decisions many times. The thing I am having a tough time with, right now, is that I cannot seem to crack the code to make the older ones get along. P and CA are fighting ALL the time. And what is worse, they snitch on each other:

“Pappa! CA is not picking up her toys!”

“Mamà! P said fuck!”

In these instances, I am conflicted about whether to tell P off for swearing, CA for not picking up the toys, or both of them for ratting on each other. Also, how are the children not going to say “fuck”? C and I say it all the time! 

The first time CA said “fuck” in English, I was ambivalent- should I be angry at her or proud of her perfect English pronunciation? You see, my children are growing up in three languages (Catalan, Italian and Swedish) and C and I speak English to each other, thinking that it is our secret language… well, not anymore. Apparently, they were paying attention all the time, and as it turns out, they understand 95% of what we are saying.  

I think I solved the swearing issue very intelligently. My children can only swear in English. This probably comes from my own upbringing. We lived in the UK for some years when I was little. My parents were really strict with swear words in my mother tongue- so they all sound really off to me. They come across as vulgar and coarse. But we could swear in English. For some strange reason, that was acceptable and oddly liberating. I am taking the same approach.

At least there is one aspect of parenting I do not struggle with, and that is Biology. Today’s biology conversation is with CA.

Mamà, do you have a cow inside your body?

Why would I have a cow inside my body?

How could you make milk for us when we were small?

I am sure I have covered the whole “how children are made” with them. I even used my medical school atlas to illustrate the matter because, with my words, they could not picture the vagina, the uterus, the ovaries, or the implantation of the embryo. I covered the whole damn thing, sexual intercourse included. When asked how our neighbours, who are a same-sex couple (women in this case), could have two daughters, I covered the aspects of sperm donation or, the alternative, adoption.

Apparently, I forgot to cover breastfeeding and how breasts develop to feed the young, which is ironic because I have read up so much about breasts. I have seen so many and physically examined so many that maybe that is why I skipped over that aspect of mammalian life. I treat breast cancer patients; that is my job, the one I do every day, and I find the breast to be this fascinating organ. I guess that is why I have not covered the functional complexities of the breast with them. It is hard to simplify things when you have so much data in your brain. Everything seems to be important. Although seen with the eyes of a child who is now asking if I hide a cow in my body to produce milk, maybe it is way more simple than what she imagines.

Being a doctor demystifies the human body to the extent that people feel uncomfortable about my ease around nakedness and anatomy. I give three hoots about changing into my swimming costume on the beach. When C saw me, for the first time, casually take off my wet bikini to proceed then even more casually to put on my dry underwear, no rush! he politely said, “Ana, there are people here,” to which I remarked, “C, no one is looking, and access to nakedness on the internet is so easy that I doubt anyone looking is impressed.”

Another example of my ease with the human body is that my children use anatomically correct language. It is a penis and vulva. I will have none of those stupid euphemisms. In Spanish, it would be things like “cosita” (little thing) for vulva or “pito” (whistle) for penis. I mean, what the actual fuck?!?!. In Swedish schools, they use the terms “snopp” and “snippa” to infantilise pubic areas. It pisses me off how they choose to be illiterate that way. Even C has a hard time not slipping back to old ways and using the word “little pea” (pisellino in the original Italian) to refer to the penis. He really struggled to say vulva. When I noticed this, I spent a whole week sprinkling the words vulva, vagina, penis, scrotum and testicles randomly in our conversation. He couldn’t stop laughing, and when I said- “C, I just don’t get it! If I shout LIVER! LUNG! COLON! Would you find it just as amusing?” It turns out that, in that particular context, liver, lung and colon were truly hilarious words. But it got rid of the problem quite swiftly.

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Laughter is a staple in my house. We scream, and we fight, but we can laugh anything away. My children think my imitation of Moto Moto is Oscar-winning material, and I can always make them laugh with that, especially my husband, who looks at me, possibly thinking, “How did she manage to get an MD and a PhD?” while I kiss my biceps. I love being able to make my husband laugh. It is one of the superpowers that we both still retain, even after 11 years of being together. Laughter is a language we share effortlessly. He can say something that will have me laughing hysterically until my sides hurt, or I can say something, and he will silently turn red with his nostrils flaring and his shoulders jiggling up and down while his eyes well up. Our children see us and laugh along even if they do not get the joke. I have three theories about why they do this:

-      Out of solidarity. They don’t want us to laugh alone.

-      Out of social pressure. Like I do, mastering the art of laughing at Swedish jokes just a split second after people around me have started laughing because I just do not get Swedish jokes.

-      Or because laughter is contagious.

These days, I am inclined to think it is the latter, especially because my older children are developing a way of saying what they think without reservation. P will listen to a song and say, “These lyrics make no sense whatsoever.” Or CA will look at a picture I drew at her request, and her verdict will be, “Mamà, your unicorn is wonky.” So yeah, I am going with the “laughter is contagious” theory.

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I love laughter; it is the one noise that our body makes that, even when ridiculous-sounding, becomes everyone.

Laughter resonates in all your cavities- mouth, nose, sinuses, trachea, bronchi, and lungs.

You can laugh with your stomach and your guts.

Anyone here peed themselves while laughing? (I am raising my hand). That is your bladder participating.

Even penises, uteri, and vaginas rumble with the echo of laughter.

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