When I was a teenager and didn’t have quite all my common sense in place yet, my uncle was hosting a BIG party because a notable family member was turning eighty. Once the house was fully prepared, I thought that the best way to distract the kiddos and get all their wiggles out was to play my Tossing Game with them.

In the back room, I put a mattress on the floor, piled all the pillows in the house on top, and one at a time began to spin each toddler cousin, nephew, and assorted hanger-on in a big circle going, “One… two… three!”, before throwing them into the pile.

The kiddos love the Tossing Game. They’d crash, clamber out, and jump right back in line for another turn.

It took me a while to realise that there were suddenly MORE kids than I remembered throwing. Like, a lot more. Guests had started to arrive, and every. Single. Little. Kid. Immediately found their way to the back room to join in. I’d gone from seven to twenty-one.

Now, it took a bit, but then Teenager [Me] realised that maybe throwing STRANGERS’ kids might be a problem.

To solve this, I promptly went out of the back room with the gaggle of twenty toddlers to loudly ask the party at large:

Me: “Hey, is it okay if I throw your kids at a wall?”

At that point, the eighty-year-old guest of honour decided that rather than socialising with all his friends, HE’D like to throw the kids at the wall, too, thanks.

This was during the global health crisis. I was (and still am) living with my grandparents, and due to life difficulties that are outside the scope of this story, dependent on them. I had come out to them as nonbinary a year before, and though it confused them, it was never in a way they refused to accept.

No better was this shown than during this story.

I’m a walking bane to chargers and earbuds and am regularly forced to ask my grandparents to buy me more. I don’t know why; I’m not even rough with them! But anyway, after I asked for one, I popped into their Amazon account just to see how long it would take to arrive.

What I saw in addition was a mask. It was not just any mask; it had “THEY/THEM” emblazoned proudly on the front, in the colors of the nonbinary flag.

I hadn’t asked for it. They had meant to surprise me with this.

I broke the news that I’d found out when I got it, and they were a little disappointed, but I wore it everywhere while masks were still necessary.

If you take any moral away from this story, it’s that anyone can be accepting of identities — even grandparents who are over seventy years old.

Recently, my mother-in-law had a major change in attitude. Over the last eleven years, she hasn’t visited us or spoken with me or my husband due to her religious zealot, hate-all attitude. So, it was a surprise when my father-in-law told us they were both coming for Christmas and [Mother-In-Law] had a surprise for me.

Their plane landed, and I was waiting for them in the bag pickup lounge. As soon as [Mother-In-Law] saw me, she made this happy squeak and hugged me.

Mother-In-Law: “Just look at you. You look gorgeous! By the way, where’s the ladies’ room?”

I told her and waited for her to exit the lounge, and I asked [Father-In-Law] what had just happened.

Father-In-Law: “She had a near-death experience. She got mugged and went to the hospital with a cracked skull.”

Me: “Oh, my God! Is she okay? Did they catch the guy?”

Father-In-Law: *Laughing* “No guy. Let me explain. She was stocking shelves at work, and they have these breakfast mugs that are more like big bowls with handles. She was kneeling and tripped when getting up, hitting the shelf with her shoulder, and four mugs fell on her head, knocking her out.”

Me: *Shocked* “So, she’s nice because of that?”

Father-In-Law: “She says Jesus spoke with her and told her to stop hating — that unless she changed her ways, she was going to Hell. Thus, she started volunteering at a soup kitchen and put her name up for housing kids who were kicked out by their parents for being gay. We’ll have our first kid in January.”

My husband, our oldest, and I are still a bit shocked at the change. [Mother-In-Law] made heart-shaped waffles for dinner, played with the triplets, and even bought the cutest clothes for the baby. 

Let’s hope this change is permanent.

My childhood cat was very food-motivated and very vocal about wanting her next meal.

At one point, my mom told me to be prepared to come down for the cat’s final days because she’d stopped demanding food. We both figured that once she lost interest in eating, it was probably the beginning of the end for her. Mom continued to keep a close eye on her, and though her health did not seem to be declining, she still did not have her usual enthusiasm for being fed.

Eventually, my mom called me and told me to disregard her previous portents of doom. Between laughs, she told me how they’d emptied the bag of food they had upstairs, gone down to the basement to get the next bag, and discovered the hole she’d gnawed in the side of it. And once her secret stash of food disappeared, she immediately returned to loudly begging.

That cat went on to live until the ripe old age of eighteen. And she remained vocal about her desire for food until the very end.

My mom just died in 2021, and we inherited some money from her. I invested mine into my tiny home, and I was waiting for it to be finished so that I could move out of my mom’s house, where I was still living when she passed away.  

I live from month to month on a fixed income.

It was getting to grass-cutting season, so I called my uncle and asked him if he would come cut my grass, which he had always done for my mom. He said that he always was paid $40 to do so, in addition to a $10 tip. I said okay to the $40.

He came and cut it, and he left the grass all over the concrete; he did not blow it off or anything. Well, I had already made out the check for $40. He started to bad-mouth me, saying that it took gas to come up here, blah, blah, blah, to try to get the extra tip out of me.

Me: “I already made the check out for the amount that we originally agreed on.”

He accepted the check as it was written, but the next time he passed by the house, guess who was cutting her own yard? Me! I had managed to save up and get myself a push lawn mower.

I never asked him to help me with my own yard again as long as I lived there.