(I’m going to Ireland in a few days.)

Mom: “Hey, you should take this skirt with you! It’s like a kilt!”

Me: “Mom, kilts are Scottish.”

Mom: “Oh, yeah, right.”

(A few days later.)

Mom: “Oh, I hope you don’t have to eat haggis. That’s sheep stomach filled with its intestines!”

Me: “I know, mom, but haggis is Scottish.”

Mom: “Oh, ha-ha, again!”

(Again a few day later, we’re looking at where I’m staying on Google maps.)

Mom: “Oh, look! There’s a lake really close to your house. Ooh, maybe it’s the Loch Ness Lake!”

Me: “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

(I am 8 years old. My mother is in the kitchen preparing dinner.)

Me: “Mum, where do babies come from?”

(She tries to think of something suitable to tell me.)

Me: “Is it from sex?”

Mum: “Well, yes.”

Me: “Okay. Did you and Dad have sex?”

Mum: “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

Me: “Eww!” *runs from the room*

(My 4-year-old niece sometimes babysits for her cousin’s guinea-pigs—Marshmallow and Chocolate. She is very fond of them. Unfortunately, both Marshmallow and Chocolate were eaten by a hungry native python whilst outside in their cage. It was up to my sister-in-law to gently break the bad news to my little niece.)

Sister-in-law: “Darling, you know Marshmallow and Chocolate?”

Niece: “Yes?”

Sister-in-law: “Well, something happened to them. I’m very sorry darling, but a snake got into their cage, and now they’re gone.”

(She waits, expecting tears, questions about death, maybe even a bit of anger at the snake.)

Niece: *after a long pause, frowning* “A snake ate Marshmallow and Chocolate for dinner?”

Sister-in-law: *still bracing for the upset* “Yes.”

Niece: “Oh.” *she looks thoughtful for a few moments, then asks happily* “What are we having for dinner?”

(My young daughter is fully toilet trained for Number Ones, and doing pretty well with Number Twos.)

Daughter: “I got poo on my finger!”

Me: “Uh-oh, how did you get poo on your finger?”

Daughter: “I was trying to scratch my foot.”

(A pause.)

Daughter: “There’s some on the floor, too.”

(My dad is a joker and pretends to be defensive of the sodas he likes. I pull out a bottle of it and pour a glass. He looks at me with fake animosity.)

Dad: “Is that my soda you’re drinking?”

Me: *opens the fridge again and looks in* “Well, I don’t see anyone else’s in there!”