You had to be there...

My grandson Eamon is three. He has gorgeous blue eyes that are thiiiiissss big and just his entry into the room makes us laugh. The other day, he didn’t eat his Cheerios because they were “yucky.” 
“Yucky?" I said, looking at the barely touched bowl.
“Yes.” (His enunciation puts mine to shame—I talk Hoosier, he speaks East Coast English.) He looked up at me, his lashes sweeping wide and innocent, and continued, “Papaw did it.”
In all probability, you had to be there to understand how funny it actually was, though I’m sure you can appreciate that I had the opportunity to chide my husband for being unable to pour a bowl of cereal.
This makes me realize that sometimes, in order for humor to work, the writer has to make the reader feel as though she’s there. It’s not enough to say This happened and she said that and then he tripped walking through the door and they all died laughing.
In this scene from my WIP (which is going on…and on…and on, but you’ve heard all about that already) my hero and heroine are at the house her elderly mother and her equally elderly aunt share. Reading over it, I think you’ll feel like you’re there. Let me know if you do—or don’t—and share a scene or a snippet with us that puts us there without you having to say, “Hey, my grandson really is funny!”

Carol caught her breath. “It was okay. He was your birth child.”
“He was. He was also much easier than you were. He grew under my heart, which was just such a blessing since we never thought it would happen. But you, Carolina, grew in my heart, and you were—and are—every bit as much a gift as he was.” Dixie grinned back, and Carol recognized herself in the expression. How could that be? “Always remember that, because I am really old, darlin’, and will probably have forgotten it by the time we finish lunch.”
Steven’s hand came to rest on Carol’s shoulder. “Could we eat now?” he asked meekly. “That roast is going to be some delicious.”
“It is.” Jo nodded assertively. “Because I cooked it. Dixie Whitney would have turned it into shoe leather.”
“And if she’d made the cake, you’d have had to spoon it out of the pan instead of slicing it,” Dixie retorted smartly. “Take your seats, children. Carol, ask the blessing, please, and don’t cut it short. The food will still be here if the prayer lasts more than three seconds.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Carol sat where Jo told her to and reached for Steven and Dixie’s hands as she bowed her head.
They discussed politics over the main course—Dixie was a republican, Jo a democrat—religion over dessert (Jo a Baptist, Dixie a Methodist, though they both attended the Church of God around the corner), and the condition of Tennessee’s highway system while Carol and Steven cleared the table. Both of the women oohed and aahed over the contents of the basket Carol brought them. They said they’d serve the bottle of wine to company, but Carol noticed they didn’t offer to open it.