(My grandmother’s house is built right on the side of a steep hill. Because of this, some of the architecture is a little strange. For example, in order to get down to the level backyard, you have to take three flights of exterior deck stairs from the top floor all the way down, instead of just heading out a back door that’s level with the yard. One summer, my cousins, siblings, and I are visiting grandma, and all of us older kids decide to hang out in the backyard. My youngest sister, four years old, comes out onto the top floor deck and yells down at us, while standing immediately to the right of the stairs.)

Sister: “HEY! HOW’D YOU GUYS GET DOWN THERE!?”

Me: “WE TOOK THE ELEVATOR!”

Sister: “THE ELEVATOR!?”

Me: “YEAH! YOU GOTTA FLIP LIGHT SWITCHES IN THE HOUSE UNTIL THE ELEVATOR APPEARS AND THE DOORS OPEN!”

(My sister excitedly runs indoors while my middle sister and cousins laugh hysterically. Minutes later, my mom storms out onto the deck and hollers down.)

Mom: “WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU TELL YOUR SISTER?!”

Me: “I ONLY TOLD HER HOW TO FIND THE ELEVATOR TO GET DOWN HERE!”

(Mom marched back inside, and minutes later my little sister came out and found the staircase down to the yard. Apparently, she’d been running around the house flicking the lights on and off, getting more and more frustrated each time an elevator didn’t magically appear. Later, when I explained the whole story to Mom, we had a good laugh… but my cranky old grandma pretended she didn’t think it was that funny, while trying to keep the corners of her mouth from quirking up.)

(My dad walks up to me, clutching the right side of his chest and moaning.)

Me: “Oh my God! What’s wrong?”

Dad: “I’m having a heart attack.”

Me: “No, you’re not.”

Dad: “Yes, I am!”

Me: “No, you’re not.”

Dad: “How do you know?”

Me: “Your heart’s on your left side.”

(He looks down at his chest and bursts out laughing.)

Dad: “Well. I guess you’re right.”

(My mother really likes Buddha statuettes. She has been talking about how much she likes them and how much she wants one, when one of our local stores sends out a flyer that shows a couple of Buddha statuettes they will be selling next week. I bring the flyer to my mother to show her.)

Me: “Hey, [Store] is going to be selling Buddha statuettes next week.”

Mother: “I know. I really like them, but I can’t afford to spend that kind of money.”

Me: “Which one do you like the most? The one with the spiky thing on its head or the one without?”

Mother: “I like the one with the spike the most.”

(A few days pass and then Monday arrives. On my way home from school I walk into the store in question, find the statuettes, and get the one my mother said she liked the most. I place it on her desk once I’m home and then immediately go to my room to take a nap. A few hours later, my mother wakes me up for dinner. I go join my parents in the kitchen.)

Mother: “How did you pay for that Buddha?”

(I’m a bit surprised, as I don’t understand what she’s asking, and I had expected her to seem at least a little bit happy with the statuette.)

Me: “Um, with money?”

Mother: “Your money or my money?”

Me: “My money.”

Mother: “So, how much do you want from me?”

Me: “What?”

Mother: “How much do I owe you?”

Me: “Nothing. It’s a gift.”

Mother: “Oh. Well… Thank you!”

(I have no idea why she thought I would have paid for it with her money, or how I would even get my hands on her money. At least that explains why she didn’t seem happy at all at first. After dinner I heard her happily announce, “I have a Buddha!” to herself from time to time, so I know she appreciated the gift after all.)

(This entire conversation, except for one word, takes place in Estonian. My father’s English isn’t very good, but he does know a lot of words.)

Father: “What was the name of the new British prince again?”

Me: “George.”

Father: “Jaws? That’s an odd name for a kid. Wait, is the entire British royalty named after body parts?”

(My mother passed away from cancer a few months ago. She and my six-year-old daughter were the best of friends, often getting into mischief together. Not long after, my daughter comes downstairs looking woebegone.)

Daughter: “Mummy, I don’t want to go to school today. I don’t feel well.”

Me: “Oh, sweetheart, that’s no good. What’s the matter?”

Daughter: “I’ve got cancer.”

Me: “You’ve got… how do you know, sweetie?”

Daughter: “I caught it off Grammie.”

Me: “Sweetie, cancer isn’t contagious. You can’t catch it off someone. Now look me in the eye and tell me honestly: do you really not feel well, or do you just not want to go to school?”

Daughter: “I… well… I don’t want to go to school.”

Me: “I thought so. Why did you say you had cancer?”

Daughter: “Because Grammie told me that the one good thing about having cancer meant she didn’t have to go anywhere if she didn’t feel like it. And I don’t feel like going to school!”

(Needless to say, my daughter and her “contagious cancer” were packed off to school as usual. She’s been “in remission” ever since!)