The King does not like to be alone anymore. Not that he was ever trolling bars solo or out driving the open road searching for meaning – he can plan that excursion for his gap year. For months, as most babies are, he pretty much has not left my side barring the night or hour here or there I give him to complete strangers or leave him on a park bench outside my house. Just kidding, just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

So according to the experts on such matters, he is going through separation anxiety; in short, he has realized he is his own person and not physically attached to me, and when I leave the room he realizes he’s alone in the world…or alone in the living room. He’s eight months, not fully steeped in existentialism yet. Of course when I reenter the room he beams with relief and acts like rainbows shoot out of my eyes. Trust me, as annoying as it is to have him scream the house down at my departure, entering a room to this response is not half bad. Sometimes I leave just to reenter so I can see his face. Oh calm down, it’s not torturing him, the King loves the suspense.

So this phase of course got me thinking about the stages we go through as infants, and how remarkable it is that some of these phases seem to carry on throughout our lives. I mean, let’s be honest, I know some grown adults - ahem, men - still incapable of being on their own. The mere notion of being without company sends them screaming into throngs of people simply so that they are not alone with their thoughts. To be fair, women fall into this category as well, but I happen to know more women needing to seek refuge from those around them. Something tells me that a lifetime of hearing, "MOM where is my-...honey, have you seen-…why why why, but you said I could!!" throughout their lives drives them to hide in a dark deep closet with a box of chocolate in order to shut out the world.

So I suppose it is one of my goals to show the King how spectacular being alone can be. In fact, now at this age, I revel in it. Firstly, for the mere fact that there is no noise unless I create it. Then of course one is free to do pretty much whatever they choose to do. Read a book, take a bath, sit and watch your nails grow. It's alone time and that means anything goes, and the beauty of it is, no one is there to tell you what to do. Ahhh bliss. Okay, so at this point the King isn’t finding his activity triangle as riveting as the book I’m reading, but he'll get there. Baby steps of course.

I’ve started to feel like the court jester that knows he is losing his ability to entertain but is desperate to keep trying as if his life depends on it. In this case, of course I am speaking of entertaining the King. In short, I have become obsessed with getting a laugh out of him. I mean a real hearty belly laugh. You would think this is an easy feat considering he is a baby. I mean on the commercials and in movies babies are howling with laughter at just about anything. One video sweeping YouTube has a baby bursting with hysterics because her father is ripping paper. I tried this of course. The King could give a hoot about ripping paper, unless he can eat the remains when you’re finished with them. 

The plain fact is the King is not an easy laugh. He is about as smiley as it gets, but there is always a bit of focused study behind his eyes deciding if it is worth his time and energy to break into a full fledged guffaw. Of course this has set me on a course of determination – this jester will make the King laugh damn it, or else I suspect he may order the removal of my head. Or at least torture me with incessant crying to show me the price of his boredom. And don’t get me wrong, I do admire a person that makes you work for it, I mean who wants to be around someone that laughs at just about anything. It’s so undiscerning. So the King makes one earn it, I suppose I have to admire that.

So of course this quest for a laugh has turned me into a typical parental idiot. I dance around, I sing, I make weird facial movements, I utter sounds I never even knew I could make, I throw stuffed animals across the room (this got a result from his father, but annoyingly not me); whatever it takes really. Usually the King meets these actions with a courteous wide smile, but it goes no further. And then of course, when I least expect it, I do something – and of course I can never quite figure out what I’ve done – that sends the King into hysterics. I swear, you feel like you’ve won the flipping lottery when this happens. The other day it entailed me jumping up and down waving my arms roaring at the top of my lungs like some mutated lion. Not only does this take energy and produce sweat dripping down the brow, but it can royally piss off the neighbors under you. To hell with them, I had a King to entertain and this jester was succeeding damn it!

I of course had to record this occurrence on my iphone and send it to the King’s father to prove my success. Yes, this elusive accomplishment has of course inspired a healthy competition between the two of us. We’re all adults here of course, but darn it, this court jester likes her head and aims to keep it!