That’s not a rhetorical question. My son actually said that to me one day. If you’re raising a neurodivergent child, literal thinking means jokes can feel like a foreign language.

I’d said something — something I thought was obviously not serious — and he stopped mid-conversation and asked if it was a joke. I said yes. He looked at me, completely done with the whole concept, and said…

“Why is everybody obsessed with jokes?”

And honestly? He has a point.

Because a joke is almost never what it says it is. And if you’re someone who takes words at face value — who says what you mean and means what you say — then the rest of us must seem absolutely exhausting. My son communicates with total honesty. Which, if you think about it, is how communication is supposed to work. Why do we walk around saying the opposite of what we think and expect everyone else to keep up?

I like to think I’m fairly funny. But my son struggles with jokes. Maybe that’s because I’m quite sarcastic, which means I’m not really saying what I mean at all. Sarcasm is basically lying — but funnier. And for someone who operates entirely in plain English, that’s a lot to process. For a long time, someone would tell a joke, everyone would laugh, and my son would look around the room and ask…

“Is that a joke?”

He still says it now. And sometimes, when he does laugh along, I’m not entirely convinced he knows what he’s laughing at. He’s reading the room. Picking up the cues. Joining in where it feels safest. Which, when you think about it, is exhausting work.

And then there are my husband’s jokes. Oh, my husband’s jokes. Proper Dad jokes.

“If the fog goes, will it be mist?”
“What a fungi!” (every single time he sees a mushroom)
“There’s not mushroom on my plate.” (every single time he eats one)

The kind of jokes that make you close your eyes slowly and question every decision that led you here. The kind of jokes that, if you’ve spent your whole life working hard to decode what people actually mean, would make you want to give up on human communication entirely.

My son struggles with these too. Mostly. Except for one.

About eight months ago, my husband was talking about someone he knows called Justin. My son happened to be in the room. And my husband, clearly delighted with himself, said…

“Do you know what I like about Justin? He’s always Justin time.”

Now, time is one of my son’s special interests. He loves it. So maybe that’s why this one landed where others hadn’t. The wordplay connected to something solid. Something familiar. Something real. Because now, eight months later, whenever my husband tells a joke — any joke — without fail, my son says…

“What about that worst joke you tell? You know the one. About Justin. Where he is Justin time.”

Every. Single. Time. Word for word. Exactly the same. And then comes the belly laugh. The big, proper one.

He might spend a lot of time understanding the gap between what people say and what they actually mean. But time doesn’t hide. Time is numbers. Order. Structure. It ticks. It makes sense. And maybe that’s why the “Justin time” joke stuck. And when the joke lives there in something predictable, something measurable, something safe — he doesn’t have to decode it.

He just laughs. Every. Single. Time.

I do still wonder sometimes —
is it him who finds jokes confusing…
or is it the rest of us who’ve made communication far more complicated than it needs to be?