Consider this:

After This Election, I’m Dazed, Confused And Desperate For Funny

The morning after the election, I staggered out of bed with an aching head after a fitful sleep. My 14-year-old was already in the kitchen, waiting for his bread to toast. He was logged onto the computer.

“Did it really happen?” I croaked. My red, puffy eyes filled with tears as he nodded, wordless.

A moment later, he turned the computer screen my way. “Check this out,” he said. I saw a photograph of a vast, towering structure sitting the middle of what looked like a national park.

“What is it?” I was puzzled.

“It’s a mansion,” he explained. “It costs $7.5 million. It’s got 12 bedrooms, 15 bathrooms, a tennis court and two swimming pools. You know what else?” he asked, pausing for full effect. “It’s in Canada.”

O Canada. Oh, Canada.

Seems my son would happily relocate to your calm and reasonable shores if the terms of his expatriation include enough bedrooms for two hockey teams. This is no small compliment, Canada, because prior to this conversation, my teen had made it clear he prefers our little California hometown to just about anywhere.

I’m a few American bucks short of the purchase price (even if it is in Canadian dollars), so I gently broke it to my boy that a British Columbian mansion was probably not in our future. But on November 8th he’d witnessed his grandmother and his mother hugging and openly weeping as the night rolled on and the news rolled in, so I deeply appreciated his online search for a viable Plan B.

My high schooler left on his bike a few minutes later. My pre-teen walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going to happen?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

I took a deep breath. Maternal instinct screamed at me to reassure my baby, to tell him that unquestionably, without a doubt, we – him, you, me, the world – would be fine. That’s what I started to tell him, anyway. “We live in a good, safe community filled with decent, generous, compassionate people,” I began. “Everything will be okay …”

Suddenly, as if possessed, another voice that sounded just like mine took over. “You know what? Everything might not be okay. Now there’s a chance that Roe vs. Wade will be overturned. Women may no longer have access to a safe, affordable abortion. We may not be able to make decisions about our own bodies, our own reproductive health. Do you know what that means for you?”

My 12-year-old angel stared at me, wide-eyed. He held the orange juice carton at a sharp angle over a glass, frozen in mid-pour.

“It means,” I said in a voice that might be described as a screech, “It means you must NEVER HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX! NEVER! BECAUSE IF YOU HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND GETS PREGNANT, SHE MAY NOT BE ABLE TO HAVE A LEGAL ABORTION, AND YOU’LL END UP MARRIED AT 16, AND YOUR LIVES WILL BE CHANGED FOREVER – AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY!”

I paused to catch my breath. “And that, sweetie,” I said, winding down to a hoarse whisper, “is why, when you’re old enough, you must always exercise your right to vote.”

“I know, Mom,” said my son, solemnly. He drank his juice, tied his shoes and headed off to school.

As I cleared the breakfast dishes, I remembered something. A few days after 9/11, with the nation still shaking with shock, anger and fear, my husband and I tried to escape our grief at the movies. We saw Rat Race, a comedy with Whoopi Goldberg, John Cleese and a host of other hilarious actors. It was the first time we’d laughed since the planes struck the Towers. My God, did we laugh. For 90 minutes straight, I laughed until my stomach hurt, my mouth ached and tears streamed down my face. Our laughter was a little crazy, a little desperate. It was what we desperately needed.

With the house now quiet around me, I shook my head at what had just transpired. Mere hours into our new post-election reality, I’d already discussed buying a multimillion-dollar Canadian mansion and gone on a tirade about safe sex to a 12 year old.

Desperate? Perhaps.

Funny? No. Not yet.

But in time, if we’re lucky, maybe.

Just maybe.