I’m the oldest of four children. We’re quite spread apart in age; the youngest is nine years younger than me. [Brother #1], who is eleven years old, has gotten a single-serve bag of chips and a drink as a special treat for his baseball team, and [Brother #2], who is nine, is jealous, since we almost never have junk food in the house.

[Brother #2] has tried and failed to steal the chips, so [Brother #1] has decided to eat them right now so he can’t try again.

Me: “Hey, [Brother #1]? May I have one?”

Brother #1: “Sure.”

Brother #2: *Incomprehensible sputtering* “Wha— Why can’t I have some?!”

Brother #1: “Because she didn’t try to steal it!”

Me: “And I asked nicely.”

Brother #2: “She’s eighteen! I’m nine!“

Flawless kid logic. He did not get any chips, and our dad told him to drop it.

My mom had a tendency to play favorites; I was scrutinized and criticized for just about anything and everything about myself, much more than everyone else, while my little sister was the sweet little angel. (And she was! Even I couldn’t say “no” to those puppy-dog eyes.)

One thing my mom got on my a** for constantly was me being a fan of a particular music artist. She never paid ANY attention to him until I started listening to him. Then, mysteriously, he suddenly became a Satanist that murdered live puppies on stage. Any time one of his music videos appeared on MTV — back when they played music! — her face would twist into a nasty scowl like she was sipping vinegar, and she would loudly scoff, grunt, and shake her head the entire time while making disapproving comments under her breath. 

One day, my sister was in her room playing around, and she had borrowed one of my CDs. My mom went into her room and began talking to her. As one of the songs ended, my mom looked at the stereo.

Mom: “I liked that! That was a really nice song, who sang that?”

Sister: “[Evil Music Artist].”

Mom: “WHAT?!”

We have two small children, ages five and three. One morning, we are eating breakfast.

Three-Year-Old: *Quietly* “Mommy, are we going out today?”

Me: “Yes, we will soon go to kindergarten.”

The five-year-old slams their fist on the table.

Five-Year-Old: *Loudly* “Not again!”

The three-year-old gently puts their fist on the table.

Three-Year-Old: *Whispering* “Not again.”

Yeah, kids, I know the feeling.

For the record, the kids love their kindergarten and have absolutely no issues going there. They just hate waking up early to prepare for it.

I have just finished watching a movie when my mom comes in and asks me when the last time I did laundry was. I looked at her.

Me: *Plainly* “Only about a week ago.”

I have a lot of clothes, so I don’t have to do laundry as often. She scoffs.

Mom: “What about your underwear? I’m sure you’ve been wearing the same pair for months!”

I try not to laugh and tell her that I change my underwear every day.

Mom: *Frowning* “Oh, sure. I know you don’t have thirty pairs of underwear.”

Me: “Actually, I do.”

Mom: *Shouting* “Then show me!”

I smile as she leaves, and I do exactly what she said. I get a small box, go into my closet and dresser, and begin collecting every pair of underwear I can.

After about fifteen minutes or so of gathering underwear, I walk out of my room to her and thrust the box in front of her.

Mom: *Demanding* “What is this?”

Me: “Thirty pairs of underwear, just like you asked.”

I smile at her. She gives me an icy glare and starts counting them out one by one.

Mom: “This is only twenty-nine!”

Me: “Oh, my bad.”

I smiled and dropped my pants, showing off a bright yellow pair of underwear.

She never bothered me about laundry after that.

My wife is one of the most independent, driven, and hardworking people I’ve ever met, to the point where we make in-jokes about her being the submissive housewife because the concept is absolutely ludicrous. 

Prior to meeting my wife, I started a company and have a stylized version of my initials as the company logo. My wife then started working at the company with me, and it became such a large part of our lives that she chose to get the company logo as a tattoo on the back of her neck.

My mother-in-law has become pretty disillusioned with marriage due to her own experiences and has been pretty derogatory and insulting to our union, mainly making comments along the lines of, “Once this marriage ends…” etc.

This story occurs at a beach, several years into our marriage. Because the tattoo is in a fairly hidden place and the relationship is strained, it’s the first time that my mother-in-law has noticed my wife’s tattoo.

Mother-In-Law: “WHAT THE F*** IS THAT?!”

Wife: “What’s what?”

Mother-In-Law: “On the back of your neck! Is that a tattoo?!”

Wife: “Oh, that! Yeah, I got it a few years ago.”

My mother-in-law then turns and addresses me, and I will admit I’m a smarta**.

Mother-In-Law: “DID YOU F****** BRAND HER?!” 

Me: “Well, that ring can come off; that tattoo never will.”

This sends her into a rage, with lots of yelling and swearing, and eventually, she storms off. I am talking with my wife after.

Me: “Honestly, I don’t get how she thought I made you get the tattoo. I’m pretty sure the last time anyone made you do anything, you were in diapers.”