“Can we please take out the trash, dad? Pleaaaaase!”

School is out. My daughters are home with me, and I promised my wife I’d keep them busy by putting them through “Homemaking School,” which they are way too excited about. 

So this morning I had them do the dishes, prepare their own breakfast, and then tidy up the kitchen.  

Now they want to take out the recycling, but that means going out of the house, and crossing the street. By themselves.

I’m all for teaching my kids independence, autonomy, all that good stuff. I also think of all the errands I can have them run for me. But even so… 

“Are you sure? You know the doorman will give me grief if I let you take the lift by yourselves, so you’ll have to take the stairs.”

“We don’t mind!” 

“Ok, fine, but you know the drill…”

I spend a long time reminding them they need to wait for the “green man,” look both ways twice, and only then use the zebra crossing. They’ve heard this hundreds of times already; I’ve been showing them how to cross the street for years – and ours is not even a busy one – so I’m not worried. 

But after they go downstairs, and it’s been a few minutes, I start to feel less sure. Should it be taking them this long? 

I mean, they have to walk down all those flights of stairs. We live on the 7th floor, that’s a lot  of stairs. 

Then they need to cross the street. 

The recycling bags were full, and I know they like to throw stuff out bit by bit (they’re too short to just empty the bag upside down anyway). 

Then they have to cross back, and climb all those stairs. 

“I guess it’s not been enough time yet,” I think, so I wait a little longer. 

Then I wait some more. 

When I start wondering if I should go downstairs, I hear a knock on the door. I immediately feel relieved, but then I realise: 

What if it’s not them? What if it’s the police, to tell me something happened? 

The knocks come again. 

I open the door slower than I normally do. 

“We’re back! Can we go to the supermarket next?” 

It’s them. Of course it’s them. I was not really worried. 

But when I tell my wife what I did with them today… 

Maybe I’ll skip this part 😅

It’s all about the words… isn’t it?  

I’ve told this story a couple of times since it happened. Both times, it came across a lot lighter than the version above. But the words I used were almost exactly the same. I didn't change them because I didn't need to.

When you tell a story live, you can use vocal variety and body language to change its tone completely. What sounded ominous on the page can sound goofy live. Not so much “Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake,” and more “Look at this stupid situation I’ve gotten myself into.” Most people are not fantastic writers, but just about everyone can sound excited, upset, happy, or angry when we’re talking to our friends. That’s why you don’t need to torture yourself over word choice: you can change drastically how your story comes across just by how you deliver it. 

Now, not everyone is super expressive and, if that’s you, that’s ok; I’m not asking you to perform. Unless you’re a trained actor, that would probably come off strange (or worse). You should sound like you sound, with maybe just a dash more energy if you’re on stage. But you don’t actually need much: 

Here’s a good way to try that: think of something bad that happened to you long enough ago that you don’t care about it anymore. Maybe someone who treated you badly, maybe something you completely messed up and that bothered you at the time. Now tell it in person to a friend, and use your voice and expressions to make it come across as something so extreme, or so absurd, that it’s funny. 

If you do it well (and it might take a little practice to nail it!), you’ll realise that often the only difference between tragedy and comedy is in how you talk about it. 

I don’t know about you… 

But I know which stories I rather tell 🤘

-Francisco 

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