Please excuse the pain I’m going through. It’s just that my kids don’t think I’m funny.
They think I’m gong-worthy, worth three quick Xs on  “America’s Got Talent,”   or one of those embarrassing acts seen during  “American Idol”  auditions  — you know, the episodes before the people with talent get to go to Hollywood.
Lucky for me, the kids from Mrs. Henneke’s first-grade class still think I’m funny. Most little kids do for that matter.
Yes, I can occasionally make an old person blow milk out her nose during a church social. Every six months or so, people at work laugh at something I say.
But I seem to be comic gold to  6- and 7-year-olds. That’s as long as I fill my act with wild contortions, funny voices and fart jokes.
Now if I can I figure out how to bus them to a Vegas hotel with their piggybanks without breaking any laws.
Note to self: Make sure The Mirage is stocked with goldfish crackers and milk.
For now, I’m content to work the classroom comedy circuit, accepting donations of Elmer’s Glue and broken crayons as payment.
I will bide my time, waiting until I’m discovered by a  school principal.
First it will be entertaining during school lunches, then assemblies, and then the biggest stage of all: A gig on the school intercom system.
Meanwhile, my own kids roll their eyes, sigh and scoff a lot.
Is this Mike on? Definitely not, dad.
Don’t get me wrong. Members of Team Henneke don’t hesitate to laugh when a rare mild profanity gets me in trouble at home.
Or when I trip over the dog. Or when the police officer wants to speak with me.
But more often than not, when I think I’m in a comic groove, I hear, “Dad, stop showing off.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself in front of my friends.”
I’ve caught them sneaking knowing glances at mom, pleading with her to spike my orange  juice with Nyquil.
So I wait for the little victories, a tiny chuckle, a crack of a smile there or a smirk.
It happened a few days ago.
In the process of rushing around in the morning, I accidentally nudge the smartphone in my pocket, setting off the voice-activation system.
“Say a command,” demands the no-
nonsense female electronic voice from the phone.
“Here’s your command,” I reply curtly to the phone. “How about, ‘shut up?’”
Didn’t hear any knee slapping from the other room. No chuckles or shrieks of laughter from Lacey, the only other person in the house at the time.
But an hour later, the exchange shows up on her Facebook account.
Faint praise indeed. I wonder if I can get her to drive the first-graders to Vegas.
There are plenty of times when making them laugh is not that important.
Like when my youngest son was entering the mystic, dark regions of teenagerdom a year ago.
He doesn’t want to go on some errands with me at first, and I wonder if this is the beginning of the end.
You know what I am talking about. The point where the 12-year-old decides that it’s not cool to hang out with dad. But as I begin pulling out of the driveway, he runs out of the house and slaps the back of the van.
“Wait a minute,” he says. “I changed my mind.”
Once in the van, he immediately begins searching for my iPod. It turns out we don’t need it. Because we talk almost the whole time, the two of us.
He tells me how one of his teachers got really mad at the class for how they behaved for a substitute.
Spencer listens intently, bursting out laughing as I describe how a teacher flung a chair and nearly hit me.
It’s almost two hours later and completely dark as we head for home with our groceries. We’re still laughing almost the whole time.
An hour after that, I’ve just given him a good night hug before he falls asleep.
I want to stop and tell him something, but I don’t.  My son, I want to tell him, remember nights like this when you finally get to the point when it’s not cool to be in the same building as me.
Remember this  during all the times when it seems like mom and dad don’t understand.
I’m glad we shared some laughs that night, but the important thing was just to be
together.

Please excuse the pain I’m going through. It’s just that my kids don’t think I’m funny.

They think I’m gong-worthy, worth three quick Xs on  “America’s Got Talent,”   or one of those embarrassing acts seen during  “American Idol”  auditions  — you know, the episodes before the people with talent get to go to Hollywood.

Lucky for me, the kids from Mrs. Henneke’s first-grade class still think I’m funny. Most little kids do for that matter.

Yes, I can occasionally make an old person blow milk out her nose during a church social. Every six months or so, people at work laugh at something I say.

But I seem to be comic gold to  6- and 7-year-olds. That’s as long as I fill my act with wild contortions, funny voices and fart jokes.

Now if I can I figure out how to bus them to a Vegas hotel with their piggybanks without breaking any laws.

Note to self: Make sure The Mirage is stocked with goldfish crackers and milk.

For now, I’m content to work the classroom comedy circuit, accepting donations of Elmer’s Glue and broken crayons as payment.

I will bide my time, waiting until I’m discovered by a  school principal.

First it will be entertaining during school lunches, then assemblies, and then the biggest stage of all: A gig on the school intercom system.

Meanwhile, my own kids roll their eyes, sigh and scoff a lot.

Is this Mike on? Definitely not, dad.

Don’t get me wrong. Members of Team Henneke don’t hesitate to laugh when a rare mild profanity gets me in trouble at home.

Or when I trip over the dog. Or when the police officer wants to speak with me.

But more often than not, when I think I’m in a comic groove, I hear, “Dad, stop showing off.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself in front of my friends.”

I’ve caught them sneaking knowing glances at mom, pleading with her to spike my orange  juice with Nyquil.

So I wait for the little victories, a tiny chuckle, a crack of a smile there or a smirk.

It happened a few days ago.

In the process of rushing around in the morning, I accidentally nudge the smartphone in my pocket, setting off the voice-activation system.

“Say a command,” demands the no-nonsense female electronic voice from the phone.

“Here’s your command,” I reply curtly to the phone. “How about, ‘shut up?’”

Didn’t hear any knee slapping from the other room. No chuckles or shrieks of laughter from Lacey, the only other person in the house at the time.

But an hour later, the exchange shows up on her Facebook account.

Faint praise indeed. I wonder if I can get her to drive the first-graders to Vegas.

There are plenty of times when making them laugh is not that important.

Like when my youngest son was entering the mystic, dark regions of teenagerdom a year ago.

He doesn’t want to go on some errands with me at first, and I wonder if this is the beginning of the end.

You know what I am talking about. The point where the 12-year-old decides that it’s not cool to hang out with dad. But as I begin pulling out of the driveway, he runs out of the house and slaps the back of the van.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I changed my mind.”

Once in the van, he immediately begins searching for my iPod. It turns out we don’t need it. Because we talk almost the whole time, the two of us.

He tells me how one of his teachers got really mad at the class for how they behaved for a substitute.

Spencer listens intently, bursting out laughing as I describe how a teacher flung a chair and nearly hit me.

It’s almost two hours later and completely dark as we head for home with our groceries. We’re still laughing almost the whole time.

An hour after that, I’ve just given him a good night hug before he falls asleep.

I want to stop and tell him something, but I don’t.  My son, I want to tell him, remember nights like this when you finally get to the point when it’s not cool to be in the same building as me.

Remember this  during all the times when it seems like mom and dad don’t understand.

I’m glad we shared some laughs that night, but the important thing was just to be together.