Well, That Was Unexpected

Why humor is sometimes the bridge between coping and coming undone

“Well, that was unexpected,” Maddie said.

We were in a doctor’s office, and I had brought all three girls with me so Mallory could get a shot.

Already, this was not my finest logistical decision.

Taking three young kids to a medical appointment involving needles seems manageable when you write it on the calendar. It looks innocent there. Just a time, a name, and the word “shot.”

Then you arrive and remember children are not bullet points.

Mallory was the one getting the shot, so naturally I expected Mallory to be upset. She was terrified of needles. I was ready to comfort, distract, and reassure her, while using my calm mom voice, which is really just internal screaming with a smile.

Maya, on the other hand, was a pro.

She had been poked, prodded, examined, and given shots so many times that needles barely seemed to faze her. She had a nightly shot before bed and was used to medical routines in a way no child should have to be.

Maya has Prader-Willi syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affects hunger, metabolism, behavior, and development. In our family, it means routines, food boundaries, medical appointments, and emotional regulation are part of daily life. It also means we have learned to find humor where we can, because sometimes that is how we keep going.

So there I was, bracing for Mallory, when Maya started crying.

Not a small cry or a little sniffle, but a full, loud, unexpected scream.

As the nurse was giving Mallory the shot and Mallory was somehow holding it together, Maya was suddenly falling apart, and I was doing that thing parents do where your face says, “Everything is fine,” while your brain is looking for the emergency exit.

That’s when Maddie turned to me and said, completely calm, “Well, that was unexpected.”

She said it so plainly and nonchalantly, like she was narrating a documentary.

I looked at her, and she looked at me, and we both started laughing.

Not because Maya was upset or the moment was easy.

We laughed because Maddie’s delivery landed right in the middle of the chaos and somehow lowered the stress temperature in the room.

The nurse smiled, Mallory settled, and Maya looked around, slightly perplexed, as if wondering why everyone had suddenly changed emotional channels without informing her.

And for a few seconds, the tension in the room lessened.

That’s what humor can do in a hard moment.

It doesn’t fix the situation or erase the stress, but sometimes, it gives everyone just enough room to breathe.

Over time, humor became one of our family’s survival tools. Not because everything was fine, but because sometimes a well-timed sentence gave us just enough distance from the chaos to keep going.

Eventually, I think Mallory and Maddie learned it by watching.

They learned that humor can be a pressure valve and that a well-timed look can say, “This is terrible, but we are going to survive it.”

They also learned that sometimes the only thing standing between you and completely losing it is one ridiculous sentence delivered at exactly the right time.

But I am careful with humor, because I have to be.

There is a fine line between laughing through something and laughing at someone. And when your family includes a child with disabilities, that line matters. I never want Maya to be the joke.

The joke, when there is one, is usually the chaos. The impossible logistics. The absurdity of thinking I could predict how three children would respond to a needle in a small exam room.

The joke is often me. Which is fair. I provide a lot of material.

I know humor does not always work and there are moments when no one needs a joke. During a meltdown, total exhaustion, in fear, the middle of real distress, humor may not belong in the room yet.

Sometimes the hard thing has to be hard first and you have to get through it before anyone can laugh.

In our family, humor often comes later. After the storm, the tears, and everyone has had time to settle and recover and decide whether we are speaking to each other again.

Then maybe someone says, “Well, that went beautifully,” about something that absolutely did not go beautifully.

Humor helps us process the aftermath. It lets us hold the hard thing without letting it swallow the whole room.

That’s what I hope my daughters carry with them.

Not that everything is funny, because it isn’t.

But when life hands them a curveball, I hope they know they are allowed to laugh if laughter helps them stay standing, and that they can be serious and still find something funny. They can love someone deeply and still laugh at the absurdity of the situation around them.

So if you see a family laughing in a moment that looks hard from the outside, maybe pause before you judge.

They may not be making light of it, they may be surviving it.

Because for some of us, humor is not proof that the situation is easy.

Sometimes it is one of the ways we get through the moments that would otherwise undo us.

Sometimes it means we are using the only tool currently available that doesn’t require insurance approval.

Curious about Prader-Willi Syndrome? Learn more here: Prader-Willi Syndrome Association | USA It’s rare, complex, and the reason I know exactly how many protein bars are in my house at all times.

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