My first child was born when I was 21. Five years later the second was born. That was a long time ago and I was busy with my life and didn’t take the time to observe things. Then, when I was 51 we adopted a baby and two years later another. With these I am older, more settled and take the time to watch them grow. I paid attention when they took their first steps, spoke their first words. I was there when they went to school and watched every little thing they did. One of the first things I noticed was that they did not have a sense of humor like mine.
Young kids basically like what we would call “slapstick.” This is the level of their humor for several years. Don’t waste a joke on them, they won’t get it. They don’t understand sarcasm, one-liners or funny stories. In fact, if a story is too long they won’t even sit still for it. They don’t get the punch line because they have quit listening long before it is delivered.
I have developed a test I call a Humor Test. I tell them an old Mark Twain story and if they don’t fall into riotous laughter I don’t waste humor time on them. The story goes something like this:
When I was a young man [it helps to use a voice much like you imagine he sounded as an old man] I was walking down the streets of San Francisco. I rounded a corner and came upon a burning building. There was a woman in a fourth floor window. “Help,” she said, “help me. The building’s on fire and I can’t get down.”
“I’ll help you,” I said.
I threw a rope up to her. “Tie that around your waist,” I yelled.
She did and I pulled her down.
Young kids basically like what we would call “slapstick.” This is the level of their humor for several years. Don’t waste a joke on them, they won’t get it. They don’t understand sarcasm, one-liners or funny stories. In fact, if a story is too long they won’t even sit still for it. They don’t get the punch line because they have quit listening long before it is delivered.
I have developed a test I call a Humor Test. I tell them an old Mark Twain story and if they don’t fall into riotous laughter I don’t waste humor time on them. The story goes something like this:
When I was a young man [it helps to use a voice much like you imagine he sounded as an old man] I was walking down the streets of San Francisco. I rounded a corner and came upon a burning building. There was a woman in a fourth floor window. “Help,” she said, “help me. The building’s on fire and I can’t get down.”
“I’ll help you,” I said.
I threw a rope up to her. “Tie that around your waist,” I yelled.
She did and I pulled her down.
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