(My husband and I have a ten-year-old son and a six-year-old daughter. Our daughter is at the age where she is borderline-obsessed with Barbies, and our son loves to tease her. I come home one Saturday afternoon to find my husband fuming and see that our daughter has been crying. My husband announces that our son will be in his room for the rest of the day, and possibly “the rest of his life.” Confused, I ask what happened.)

Husband: “Last night when we were in bed, [Son] sneaked downstairs and watched Seven.”

Me: “It’s inappropriate for his age, but I’d cut him some slack. A lot of kids do that. I did it. You probably did it.”

Husband: “Oh, no, it gets worse. This morning he went into [Daughter]’s room while she was playing and gave her a box and told her it was for Ken.”

Me: “Oh, my God, don’t tell me…”

Husband: “She thought he was playing and had ‘Ken’ open up the box…”

Me: “It was, of course…”

Husband: “Barbie’s head.”

Me: “Well, that’s not right at all!” *pause* “Ken’s not supposed to look inside the box. He should have had another doll open it. I’ll have a talk with him about respecting the classics.”

(My daughter and my husband both gave me the stink-eye for the rest of the day. I guess I deserved it, but I still think it was hilarious. I’m a rotten parent.)

(I move out of home and start going to college about a four-hour drive away when I am eighteen. My first time back in my parents’ house is Thanksgiving almost four months after moving away. A family friend graduated high school with me and moved out of home for college, too, but he moved to Arizona, about 10 to 12 driving hours away. He also drives back to spend Thanksgiving with his family. My first day back, my mom asks me this.)

Mom: “Did you bring your laundry for me?”

Me: *utterly baffled* “What? Why the heck would I bring my dirty laundry here?”

Mom: “Boys always bring their laundry home for their moms to wash when they first move out.”

Me: “I doubt that, but no, I didn’t bring you my laundry. I’ve been using a laundromat down the street from my apartment.”

Mom: “Are you sure? [Friend] brought all his clothes back for [Friend’s Mom] to wash.”

Me: “Well, I’m not [Friend]! I’ve been doing my own laundry for… Wait. Are you telling me that [Friend] didn’t wash his clothes for the last four months and then drove back from Arizona with a car full of stinky clothes?”

Mom: “Yep! I was planning on washing your clothes, too.”

(She bothers me a couple more times during the five-day visit, asking if I have clothes for her to wash. Finally, on the day I’m driving back to my apartment, I carry the dirty clothes I wore that weekend, as well as the towels I used from the bathroom, into the laundry room so I don’t have to drive home with dirty clothes and so my parents have clean towels in the hall bathroom. My mom catches me on the way.)

Mom: “I thought you said you didn’t bring your laundry home with you!”

Me: *gritting teeth* “I didn’t. These are the clothes I wore while I was here and the bathroom towels.”

(I then put my laundry into the washing machine, rotate it into the drier, fold and pack it myself, and restock the towels in the bathroom. However, I hear my mom talking to [Friend’s Mom] on the phone.)

Mom: “You were right; [My Name] brought his clothes for me to wash, just like [Friend].”

Me: *head explodes*

(My eight-year-old brother comes home from a birthday party.)

Mom: “Was there food at the party?”  

Brother: “Yes, Mommy, but I didn’t eat it because it was blessed by another god and I believe in Jesus.”

Mom: “Oh. Okay, then.”

Brother: “Yes, the lady kept saying it was blessed in Hell.”

Mom: “Did she maybe say, ‘Blessed Halal’?”

Brother: “Maybe. Why?”

Mother: “There’s a big difference. It would have been fine if you had eaten it.”

(My brother spent a birthday party thinking his friend was a satanic worshiper and they were trying to poison him with food from Hell. On the bright side, he was polite and just told the lady that he had already eaten. Gotta love eight-year-olds.)

(I am making a day trip with my teenage niece. To keep her busy on the train, I bought a book with sudokus for beginners. Keep in mind that she doesn’t believe in herself and thinks she is bad at maths.)

Me: “Here you go.”

Niece: “Sudoku? Isn’t that difficult?”

Me: “Not really. And these are super easy.”

(I explain how sudokus work and she starts. She completes the grid in no time and with ease as if she is writing a letter. She completes a second and third one in under a minute, sighs, turns the book to the last sudoku and completes that one in record time, as well.)

Niece: “Auntie, this is too easy.”

Me: “So I see. You know what? I’ll buy you a new one for the ride home.”

(True to my word, I bought one that was one level under “expert,” and she happily worked herself through them. Those took a bit more time to be solved. I finished the super easy ones.)

(I’m the jerk in this one. When I am 13 and my sister is about 11, we decide to play catch. It’s worth noting that she isn’t new to this, just having a bad start. She makes another bad throw.)

Me: “Hey, what happened to ‘hitting me in the chest’?”

(Coaches tell you to throw to the person’s chest, where their glove is supposed to be.)

Sister: “Sorry.”

(I throw it back. She makes another bad throw, this one going way above my head. I get a bit snarky.)

Me: “Human anatomy according to [Sister’s Full Name].” *pointing out body parts* “Arm, hand, fingers, leg…” *points to the sky* “…chest, apparently.”

Sister: *laughing* “Shut up!”

(After that, whenever her throws are off, I point to wherever the ball landed and say, “Chest?” She laughs for a bit, then starts to get upset. Her throws improve eventually, but I don’t let up. And then:)

Sister: “Hey, [My Name], look!” *points behind me*

(I, like a fool, make the classic blunder and turn around.)

Me: “Where?”

(My sister LOBS the ball at full force into my back, knocking me onto the ground hard.)

Sister: “Chest!”

(I left her alone for the rest of the day.)