Once upon a time there was this kid. His name was Isaiah. Everybody thought he was really funny; everyone thought he should be in comedy or on stage. Isaiah did not want that. Isaiah does not want anything other people want him to want. Isaiah’s mommy has learned that the hard way, so she does not suggest things anymore. Did I mention that everyone thinks he’s funny? However, his mommy; well his mommy knows the truth. There is a little motor working in his brain – it’s like a tape recorder and a mixer sans filter. This motor is very dangerous. Do not under-estimate the motor.
Isaiah has a Nana, we don’t have Nana’s in my family, so this Nana obviously comes from the other side. This Nana has an interesting way of looking at things. She also has difficulty processing information correctly. For instance, when she inquired how often we go out to eat and I said, “We go out to dinner once a month,” she heard the mutation, “we go out to dinner every night.” “Isaiah loves all vegetables” is magically transformed into “Isaiah will only eat corn and peas,” which of course begs the editorial from Nana: “You know, peas and corn are starches not vegetables.” As I am a good daughter-in-law, I do not point out that starch and vegetables are not mutually exclusive. I also do not point out – again – that Isaiah loves all vegetables.
One night when I am enduring just such a conversation, our exchange sets up my comedian to produce another unforgettable one-liner. Observe:
Nana: You have too much juice in your house.
Patient Daughter-in-law: (Why I bother to respond, I don’t know): We actually have no juice in our house.
Nana: Well, I always see Isaiah drinking juice.
Me: That’s not juice, it’s lemonade, and we are at a restaurant. We really never have anything like that at home because Kim (my husband) doesn’t drink anything but coffee and water, and I only drink tea.
Nana: Well, he shouldn’t drink so much juice.
To this typical Nana-non-sequiter, I am silent. I am not seething, no worries. I just know better than to argue with the metamorph-ical mind that is Nana’s. Of course, comic relief is not far away as Isaiah pipes up, “Poppy drinks juice at work, though. Well, he doesn’t drink juice, he drinks Kool-Aid.” I look at him, eyebrows scrunched up, “What honey?” Isaiah: “You know Mommy, you’re always telling Poppy to drink the Kool Aid at work.”
I literally choked on my drink, and had to turn my head away so he wouldn’t see me trying to contain my laughter. At the same time my mother-in-law leans in and says, “He’s not talking about Jim Jones, is he?” Yes he is Nana, yes he is.