I need validation that I’m a worthwhile father. Not in the sense of Parenting magazine I’m a Super Dad Who Supports My Children and Follows All The Latest Research On Child Rearing. No, I need to be the funniest damn person in the house.

I’ve already lost Kaitlyn. She’s nearing seven and . . . I’m just a dumb boy who doesn’t understand Barbies and tea parties. I’m the guy who controls the TV and tells her not to go outside without a jacket.

That leaves Gertrude, burgeoning flower of a four-month-old baby. Her personality is currently in development and there is still time to convince her that I am the familial equivalent of Second City comedy troupe.

Gertrude is a happy baby. She is content to lie on the floor and taste whatever comes into her hands. Toys, blankets, the cat. Whatever, as long as it fits.

It’s my chance. She’s learning how to laugh and acknowledge what amuses her.

She lays on the floor, ready to be amused. I crouch down, readying my repertoire.

Funny voices. Check. Goofy faces. Check. Age old TTT (Terrible Tickle Torture). Check. Bouncy toys. Check. Various fabrics perfect for peek-a-boo. Check.

I move in for the kill, giving her my best routine. Robin Williams on his best day couldn’t match my performance. I’m brilliant. I’m letting loose with infant tested material that is sure to cause hysterical fits. I move from one form of comedy to another, ensuring that Gertrude never bores of my particular material.

Exhausted, I ready myself for my final bow.

Nothing. Maybe a crooked grin.

Mom walks in and says, “Hi Gertrude” in a high-pitched voice. Squeals of delight from my little lumpy daughter.

Son of a . . .

I’ve failed. I’m not the funniest person in the house. It’s mom. And she doesn’t even have material! She is just . . . funny.

Perhaps I should take comfort in that. Gertrude takes me seriously while Mom is a laugh a minute riot. In the future Gertrude will listen to me and blow off mom because she’s just a clown.

Not likely. I’m already being set up to be majorly screwed when both the girls are grown.

Kaitlyn: Can we have a pizza?

Me: No, we shouldn’t spend the money.

Kaitlyn: Not even for your little princesses?

Me: How many do you want? Imported from Italy?

Even Gertrude has my number. At such a young age, she’s in complete control.

Gertrude: Gooo.

Me: Here’s twenty bucks.

She’ll need that money for her therapy bills in the future. I’m sure at some point her friends will wonder why her dad is jumping around making monkey noises and screaming, “I’m funny! See! Mom’s not funny, I am!”

Why am I so intent on winning the comic approval of an infant? She can’t even control her own bowels. Of course, that’s the first rule of comedy. “Get an audience with no control of their own bodily secretions.” Of course, I always get the audiences that can’t stop sweating.

That’s all for today. I have to go try out my newest material on the cat.

I hear feline humor is the latest rage.