(I’m playing a video game with my dad. Despite that the object of the game focuses on teamwork, he likes to be competitive about everything.)

Dad: *boastfully* “Look, I’m doing so much better than you!”

Me: *calmly* “Okay.”

Dad: “It says I have more kills than you, I didn’t die as many times, and I survived to the end and you didn’t!”

Me: “Cool. Want to play again?”

Dad: “Why aren’t you upset?”

Me: “Why do you want me to be upset? It’s just a game.”

(The second time around I actually manage to do far better than my dad.)

Dad: “All right… I guess you beat me this time.”

Me: “Cool. You want to play again?”

Dad: “Why aren’t you getting excited and rubbing it in my face?”

Sister: “Has it maybe occurred to you that she’s playing because she thinks it’s fun and doesn’t really care who’s doing better?”

(I later got yelled at for not making a huge deal out of the fact that I was apparently “winning.” I don’t play many games with my dad anymore.)

(My older brother and I have been helping our parents clean out their basement. While looking through our old stuff, I find our old Gameboys and copies of Pokémon Red and Blue. Keep in mind that we first got the games when he was nine and I was five.)

Me: “Look what I found!”

Brother: “So that’s where they went! We should plug these things in and play them.”

Me: “Cool, but I can’t remember if I had Blue or Red.”

Brother: “I’ll check.”

(My brother puts the cartridges in and plugs in both Gameboys. After a few minutes he figures it out.)

Brother: “You had Red.”

Me: “Are you sure?”

Brother: “The character’s name is Batman, his team consists of a Charmander named Flamebutt, three Pidgies all named Poop, and a Ratatta named Lettuce. He also doesn’t have any badges or money.”

Me: *trying not to laugh* “That would be mine.”

(I ended up restarting the game and playing it properly.)

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(When talking about switching disks on the console:)

Me: “Ejection!”

Daughter: “Rejection!”

Me: “Objection!”

Husband: “Dejection.”

Daughter: “That actually works in that order!”

(My three-year-old son has a thick Yorkshire accent for his age, and I’m trying to teach him to say his words better, particularly words with the letter ‘t.’ My son has never been to America and hasn’t really spoken to anyone from America.)

Me: “Football.”

Son: *mumbles something*

Me: “Come on, so I can hear you. Foo… T… ball.”

Son: *mumbles something*

Me: “Come on, I can’t hear you properly; say it loud.”

Son: *looks me straight in the eye and shouts in his accent* “SOCCER!”

(His dad fell on the floor laughing and I gave up. He’s clearly sticking to his roots.)