(I spend a summer in college working as a tour guide for my school, and I like everything about it except for some of the parents. One day when I am manning the front desk of the Visitor’s Office, I get the following call around 9:50.)

Caller: “I’m trying to find your office for the 10:00 free tour, and I can’t find it anywhere! Our daughter needs to be on this tour. We’re at the right address.”

Me: “Well, that’s odd. Just to confirm, you’re at [address]?”

Caller: “Yes, [address], North Haven. And we’ve been looking all over!”

Me: “Ah, that explains it. We’re in New Haven, not North Haven.”

Caller: *yelling at the other person in car* “You idiot, we’re in the wrong town! Put in the address for New Haven, and you’d better hope we get there on time.” *to me* “Do you think we’ll get there on time? [College] is our daughter’s first-choice college, and she needs to be on this tour!”

Me: “Well, I’m not sure, ma’am, but I hope to see you soon!”

Caller: *degenerates into unintelligible bickering with the driver as she hangs up*

(At 10:30, the family of three bursts into the office, husband and wife sniping at each other. They stride up to my desk:)

Caller: “Has the tour left yet?”

Me: “Sorry, at this point it would be difficult to catch up to them.”

Caller: *looking stricken* “Our daughter has her heart set on your school! Is there any way we can get a tour today?”

Manager: “Well, you can pay $100 for a private tour.”

Caller: “Yes, thank you, we’ll do that! Anything for our girl.”

(As they paid my manager and arranged the tour, I looked down at their daughter. She looked back up at me — from her stroller! The girl was clearly two or three years old, and I doubt she could even say the word “college” yet, let alone have a first-choice school.)

Today we celebrate those who do one of the toughest jobs on the planet.  A mom is a mom in so many ways: pregnancy, adoption, fostering, step-parenting, blended families, and the moms we adopt ourselves. Mothers are strong and powerful and are not afraid to show it.

We’ve gathered together stories that exemplify the mothers you do not want to mess with.

You Made A Gross(ery) Error — Exhausted mom is not taking your nonsense today.

Stupidity Is A Forgon-orrhea Conclusion — This mom does not ration her ire when her child is sick!

The Mother Of All Voices — Imitation (of your mom) is the sincerest form of flattery.

Very Bad Reception, Part 7 — Don’t try to fool a mom when you’ve been slacking off.

Stuck In The Middle — It’s all about the name rage.

The Shift Takes a Sudden Shift — Do not complain to a Mom about her child.

Moms Can Be Scarier Than Robbers — She’s not the main focus here but this mom is still not putting up with your nonsense!

It Pays To Have Your Complaint Be Genuine — Mothers make great managers; they can see through any BS.

This Place Is A Train Wreck — When families don’t know they’re being short-changed, this mother handles it!

The Disappointed Mom Look Is Mightier Than The Sword — Moms have special superpowers.

For those of us who are spending the day celebrating with a mom, being a mom, or remembering a mom, Happy Mother’s Day from NotAlwaysRight!

Got your own awesome (or terrifying) mom story? Let us know about it here!

(My youngest brother is thirteen and a very sweet kid. He can be a bit overwhelming at first; he’s very energetic and loves to talk your ear off with fifty different topics all at once. Despite this, my family and I love him dearly. He has some mental damage done from seizures he had as a baby, so he’s certainly “different” to others, but to us he’s normal. Most people in our family accepted him right away when they met him, thinking he’s a sweetheart… Some didn’t — not right away, at least. One day, my cousin, about four years older than my brother, visits from out of state to see us and our grandparents. I offer to drive her and my brother to the store as they need something. This happens while we’re there.)

Brother: “Oh, oh! [My Name], look, look! This shirt has a Minecraft creeper on it! I want it.”

Me: “It’s 30 bucks! I don’t have that money on me right now, bud. Sorry.”

(He’s a bit upset but walks it off. He tends to mumble to himself to let off steam. He’s mumbling something about getting money himself for it, and I can hear him. So can [Cousin].)

Cousin: “Um, excuse me?!”

(Both my brother and I look at her.)

Cousin: “What did you just say?! Under your breath?”

Brother: “N-Nothing…”

Cousin: “I know you said something. What was it?”

Brother: “I… I just wanted the shirt…”

Cousin: “Okay, so you act like a f****** baby because she said no?”

Me: “Woah, woah. Calm down, [Cousin].”

Brother: “N-No… I wanted it but… I can wait for it… I just said that I could get money myself.”

Cousin: “Yeah, okay, sure. You need to stop acting like a f****** baby. Grow up! You’re too old for Minecraft, anyway. Get over it.”

Brother: “But I like it. It’s fun and I play with friends.”

Cousin: “You’re too old! Grow up. Your stupid friends are probably younger than you. Why do you act like such a baby?!”

Brother: “I just–”

Cousin: “No excuses! [My Name], your brother is so immature. What the h*** is wrong with him?”

Me: “[Cousin], you don’t need to make a scene. I heard him and he said nothing bad. You don’t need to be insulting him like this.”

Cousin: “Yeah, well, it’s not like it’s my fault he’s so [disability slur].”

(That’s when I stare at her, unsure of what to say. My brother tears up and runs off, about ready to cry.)

Me: “Excuse me?! It’s not his fault… You have no right to act this way towards him.”

Cousin: “This is why he acts spoiled. You’re a f****** idiot for giving him what he wants.”

(She stormed off towards the checkout with whatever she happened to pick up while I ran off to look for my brother, who was crying in the toy aisle. I tried to calm him down, letting him know I’d talk with [Grandparents] when we got home. He accepted that and walked with me towards [Cousin] who looked impatient. The drive home was silent, save for a few sniffs from my brother. I tried to explain the situation to my grandparents, but [Cousin] kept interrupting and, in the end, my grandparents scolded my brother for his behavior and me for allowing him to act like that. [Cousin] was smug about it, too. My brother and I went home and I refuse to speak to my cousin, who has tried to talk to me like nothing happened since.)

(I am about eight years old. I wake up before my parents one Sunday morning and decide I want to do something nice for them and make breakfast. Setting the table goes fine, making tea goes fine — water-heater, so no stove involved — but then I come to the bread. On a normal Sunday, my mom will eat just a few slices of bread, my dad a croissant, and I a breakfast roll. The thing is, I don’t know the breakfast rolls are bake-off bread, while the other stuff is just frozen. So, little oblivious me just puts everything in the microwave to defrost it. When the microwave pings, the slices and croissant are ready, but the roll still looks “frozen.” No biggie, I think; maybe it just needs longer to defrost. So, I put the roll back in the microwave, set the timer as far as it will go, thinking I can check up on it every couple of minutes until it is done, and turn it on again. Then, I go to watch TV and, as you can imagine, pretty much forget about the roll, until after a while I notice a burning smell and smoke coming out of the kitchen. I turn off the microwave, open it — more smoke — open the garden door, usher the dogs and cat outside because I think they shouldn’t be in a room that is full of smoke, and go upstairs to tell my parents. They are both still sound asleep. As my mom is sick, I try and wake up my dad.)

Me: *softly* “Dad?”

Dad: *snores*

Me: *louder* “Dad.”

Dad: *grumbles*

Me: *shaking his shoulder* “Daaad.”

Dad: *grumpily* “What?”

Me: “The kitchen’s full of smoke.”

Dad: “WHAT?!”

(You can bet he flew out of bed after hearing that. Thankfully, my well-intentioned mishap caused no permanent damage, and my parents were even able to laugh about it… after the microwave was cleaned out.)

(Mom has never been outside the US in her life. We pick her up in Frankfurt and head out on the Autobahn back to Wurzburg. As we are going along, she starts noticing the signs, “Ausfahrt” and “Einfahrt,” at the side of the road. She asks her dutiful son:)

Mom: “What do those signs mean?

Me: “Well, Mom, ‘Einfahrt’ means you can only fart once. ‘Ausfahrt’ means you can fart all you want!”

(Twenty silent miles go past as she mulls that over.:)

Mom: “These people are nasty!”

(My wife can’t stand it me pranking her.)

Wife: “Don’t listen to that fool. Those words mean ‘exit’ and ‘entrance.’”

(Mom looks at her, looks at me, and then exclaims:)

Mom: “These people aren’t nasty; it’s my own darned son that’s nasty!”