I have laughed with many people in my life but have rarely gotten into a belly ache state with anyone, with the exception of my mother. We have laughed so hard together that we have cried, we have peed our pants, and we have both have had to lie down because our stomachs have hurt so much. One funny story in particular reflects the many joyful times that we spent together where we couldn’t stop laughing out loud.

When I was a young adult (almost 40 years ago), my mother and I often spent our time together going to live theatre. We travelled to New York City to see Broadway plays, to Las Vegas where we caught our favorite musical shows, and we frequented the theatre district near our home in Toronto.
Our preferred outing was dinner at an Italian restaurant and then catching a live theatre production, afterwards. So, I was very excited when my mother advised me during one of our regular dinners out, that she had snagged front row seats to a live show that night. She really didn’t know anything about the play, other than that it was a musical, a genre that we both loved.

We arrived early to the theatre and were the first to be shown to our seats. I was filled with anticipation and hope that this live musical production would be memorable, with catchy songs that we would hum to, and live performances that would take our breath away. My mother and I had seen so many phenomenal 80’s hit musicals together, such as Evita, Grease, Cats, Pirates of Penzance (where I witnessed Barry Bostwick sweat), and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (where I could almost touch Donny Osmond). We both adored those memorable performances.

The host who seated us looked at us quite perplexed and commented that he was surprised that my mother and I were seeing this play together. While taking our drink order, I bragged to him about our history of regularly observing live musicals. He simply nodded, trying desperately not to chuckle, and told us that he sincerely hoped that we would enjoy this one.

As soon as our host left, I picked up the Program and started to read the contents to learn what the play was about. The first thing that I saw under the title “Let my people come” was the subtitle “A sexual musical”. “How strange”, I thought. I asked myself, “What does that mean”? I continued to glance and noticed the word “nudity” throughout the program. I immediately suggested to my mother that I thought this may be a nude play. She quickly dismissed my observations. I asked her if we should ask someone before it started what it is about, and she responded that she doubted it could be a nude play. Keep in mind that this was the 80’s and there were no cell phones and easy access to the internet. However, as I continued to examine the Program, more information started revealing itself to me.

My fears were confirmed when the play opened with an entire naked ensemble cast, and they spent the next hour or so singing songs that I cannot even remember. After the first song, “Everyone likes to screw”, I signaled to my mother to leave, but she wasn’t acknowledging my obvious gesture, and later said that she didn’t want to be rude and walk away in the middle of their act. I asked myself, “Would she rather see me hide under the table or leave”? I was so uncomfortable that I thought I was going to pass out. I didn’t know where to look so I stared at my wine and downed it. Not only was the entire cast naked, but one song in particular focused on their private body parts that they had decorated with brightly colored ribbons and bows. To be perfectly honest, I don’t even recall much of the first act, because I was so embarrassed, that I focused on guzzling my wine and completely tuned it out. I was beyond mortified.

When the first act finally ended, I immediately got up to leave at the same time that several of the cast members came over to our table to interact with us. They were all nude with their bright ribbons and bows, still intact. I continued to stare at my wine as they started talking my mom up and complimenting her at how progressive a mother she was, for coming to this play with her daughter. They chatted to my mom for what seemed like hours, until, finally, their conversation ended by the actors telling us how phenomenal it was for us to experience the play together and how much it meant to all of them. From all the attention they paid to us, I gathered that we must have been their first mother and daughter duo to attend, or at least to sit in front row seats.
By the end of intermission, I had downed a few glasses of wine and was feeling a little tipsy. I had gone from looking only at my wine glass to the occasional glance and nod to the cast, during their everlasting conversation with my mother. I began to find the entire experience slightly amusing, but still predominantly absurd. After bonding with the cast, my very polite mother confessed that we couldn’t be rude and leave now and that we had to stay until the end of the show. Maybe it was the wine, but during the second act, neither my mother nor I could take our eyes off of all their private body parts bopping around with their meticulous placed and brightly colored ribbons and bows. I even caught my mother swaying her head back and forth to a couple of the songs.

When the play finally ended and we left the theatre, my mother and I laughed hysterically from the moment we stepped outside, all the way home. Every time one of us started laughing, the other one couldn’t stop, and we both barely made it home that night without wetting our pants. The outing became one of our many memorable experiences and stories that we shared with everyone. Every time one of us mentioned the play, we both would burst into fits of laughter. Many times, we would be laughing so hard that neither of us could even finish the story, and we would barrel over into fits of laughter where our stomachs would ache. My mother has now passed, and I miss her immensely, especially those belly ache laughs that we regularly shared. I’m fortunate that all of my family loves to laugh because it always feels so good to laugh out loud.