I’ve had trouble writing lately. My son’s as entertaining, frustrating, and clumbsy as ever, so I shouldn’t be short of material. So what gives?

Earlier this week, as we were sitting down to dinner, Ian raised an admonishing finger toward me. He tilted his head and said, ‘Waaaiit….waaiiit…,’ as if I were about to do something stupid which I’d done a thousand times before, and he wanted to head me off at the pass. He sounded like a parent. ‘Now,’ he patiently explained, finger leveled at my face, ‘you don’t touch my milk.’

It was funnier than it sounds, which is, I think, my problem. This scene has been floating in my head all week. I’ve wondered again and again how I could capture this moment in words, so that milk would also come out of your nose. But I can’t. There aren’t enough adjectives to describe Ian’s expression or tone of voice, or adverbs delicate enough to explain the movements of his hands or eyebrows.

Ian has crossed the boundary between slap-stick and farce. I love reading Shakespeare, but I’d much rather watch the play – and I ain’t Shakespeare. Lately, life with Ian seems to defy description, and my words pale in comparison to the subtleties of a moment. Try as I might, I can’t help but feel like that guy at the water cooler, doing a bad impersonation of Kramer from last night’s Seinfeld rerun. In the end, you just had to be there.

Thankfully Ian still has a bit of Chaucer in him. Getting Ian to bed has been a cinch since I stumbled upon the trick of racing him upstairs, to his toothbrush. Last night, though, Ian’s stride ended at the place where met our hardwood floors, the worn-out feet of his pajamas, and a thin reside of Pledge left from Kelly’s dusting. Groucho and a banana peel couldn’t have done better.

Now that’s comedy!