So, I hate “Happy.” I mean, not really, but for a while it was everywhere and I felt like I was being ordered to be happy by every car ad, grocery store speaker, and minion in America, and if I want to be in a bad mood I’m going to be in a bad mood, Pharrell, goddammit. So my hating “Happy” has become a bit of an inside joke for the lovely husband, Z, and me.
Last night was the gifted class spaghetti dinner fundraiser. The kids all performed for us. Z warned me they were singing “Happy.” Numerous times. (This is the same kid who was worried I’d be upset at him for singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” because I’d think he was saying I was an adulteress or something. Our conversation about that is actually how he learned the word ‘adulteress.’)
Z likes to find us in the audience, give us a wave, and then not look at us again during performances. “Happy” was the last song of the evening. The intro started, and he looked right at me, gave me the biggest cheesy grin, and this unsubtle, utterly obvious thumbs up.
I cackled. Like, I’m pretty sure people were looking at me.
Scott and I were together for 16 years before we had the boy, so we were a pretty solid unit before we added him to the mix. And every once in a while, like last night, it hits me just how well our little goofball fits in with us.