I chose La Salle University for grad school because, well, the school has some good-looking dudes. 

That’s it. That’s the only reason. 

I didn’t care that I’m not Catholic. 

I didn’t care about the distance.  

I didn’t even care about the tuition. I was paying it myself anyway. 

I was just that boy crazy. 

A few years into my studies, my tuition dollars paid off.  

Black hair. Crystal blue eyes. 

My Kryptonite.  

When our class went on break, I buttonholed him into a conversation. 

And he said something. Something funny. One of the funniest things I had ever heard.  

And I thought, “I’m going to marry this guy.” 

Because a dry wit is also my Kryptonite. 

It’s also genetic and dominant. 

My father-in-law has it. My husband has it. 

And my son has it. 

There’s a line in SpongeBob SquarePants. SpongeBob asks Patrick and the Crusty Crab crew if they can reproduce by budding. 

“Can you? Can you? Can you?” ask the miniature SpongeBobs sprouting from his porous yellow body. 

This is our son — produced by budding. Sure, he’s blonde like me. And has an uncontrollable urge to adopt homeless pets.  

But that’s the extent of my genetic contribution. 

Remember in A New Hope? When Obi-Wan stops mid-fight with Darth Vader? He sacrifices himself, so Luke Skywalker can become Luke Skywalker. 

Darth Vader takes one swing with his lightsaber and whoosh! Obi-Wan is gone. Dead.  

That’s what I think my chromosomes did when they met up with my husband’s. They pulled an Obi-Wan so my son could become my son. 

Despite the blonde hair, he looks exactly like my husband. 

And acts like him. 

And has his dry sense of humor. 

That probably doesn’t sound like a problem to you. It probably sounds nice, having a Lilliputian replica of that tall drink of water I paid a lot of tuition to meet. 

But it is a problem.  

See, if your husband says he told his friend you called him a less attractive Jason Statham, and you text that friend saying you did not call him a less attractive Jason Statham, and that friend texts you the following: 

“What are you talking about?” 

And your husband collapses into guffaws, well. That’s funny.  

And you laugh at your husband’s joke because he’s a practical joker and your appreciation of that makes you two a perfect match. 

But when your daughter says her dental floss is missing, and you ask your son if he took it, and he says no, but then the dental floss continues disappearing for weeks — weeks! — and your daughter spirals, drawing a map of the bathroom counter with an outline of where the floss is supposed to go, writing “Leave the floss here!” and your son finally confesses to hiding the floss, well. 

That’s funny too. 

But you can’t laugh. Your daughter is furious, and you’ve gone to the grocery store, like, 11 times for dental floss. 

You can’t even laugh when your son doubles over with giggles, tears streaming down his face as he tells you he almost blew the prank when your daughter drew the map. 

“A map!” he laughed. “For dental floss!” 

My husband looked at me then. He looked at our son. Then he pointed at our son, sternly telling him to wait while Mom and Dad determined his punishment. 

Then my husband hauled me into our office. 

And I crumpled into silent, uncontrollable laughter. 

“You encourage him when you laugh,” my husband often admonishes me. 

“You encourage me when you laugh,” says the kid exactly like him but one-eighth his size. 

So you see my problem, right? 

I can’t find my husband funny without also finding my son funny. If I stifle my amusement at my son’s wit, my husband’s schtick dries up pretty quickly, too. 

“And you,” I tell my husband, “do not want that to happen.” 

Last week, my son and I were driving home from his improvisation class when he decided to finish the trip with his eyes closed. 

“I’M GETTING A LOT OF IDEAS!” he said. 

“Is one of them to shout everything?” I asked. 

“I’M NOT SHOUTING,” he said. 

He was shouting. 

“UNDERWEAR WITH PICTURES OF BUTTS ON THE BACK!” he said. 

“PENCILS THAT GIVE CAREER ADVICE!” 

“PREGNANT COTTON CANDY!” 

I was on board with the pencils and even the underwear, but what is pregnant cotton candy? 

“WHEN YOU EAT IT, MORE COTTON CANDY POPS OUT!” he said. 

So cotton candy reproduces by budding, too? 

“RAISINS ON THE VINE LIKE GRAPES!” he said. 

“No,” I said. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN? THESE ARE GREAT IDEAS! THEY’RE EYES CLOSED IDEAS!” my son said. 

Eyes Closed Ideas. Right. Of course they are. 

“UNITED STATES MAPS BUT EACH STATE IS A DIFFERENT FLAVOR!” 

Not bad, depending on the flavors. 

“GOPHERS THAT HANG FROM YOUR ELBOW AND TALK ABOUT MARBLES!” he said. 

And I was gone, giggling on a dark New Jersey highway, my sides aching.  

“DON’T TELL DAD ABOUT EYES CLOSED IDEAS. I WANT TO TELL HIM,” he said. 

The following morning, I told my husband his son — his son — had something to tell him. Then I dissolved into laughter. 

My husband sighed. 

Yeah. 

Still boy crazy.