(My parents and I are walking around the zoo. It’s near the end of our day there and we’re pretty tired. We’re walking around the African area and my mom asks a question.)

Mom: “Where are the sand people?”

Me: “What? Sand people?”

Mom: “Yeah, you know, the little guys that…” *mimes popping up out of the ground*

Me: “Oh! Meerkats, mom. I think you mean meerkats.” *dies laughing* “I’m calling them sand people from now on, though.”

(And yes, we did end up finding where the “sand people” were, and had a good time watching them. I won’t let her forget this, though.)

(My brother-in-law is huge, with biker tattoos. I hear him say, all in a high-pitched, happy voice, upon raiding the pantry…)

Brother-In-Law: “Oooooooh, hidden muffin!”

(I grew up across the street from a family of seven kids; I was best friends with their youngest. Their second oldest was born with cerebral palsy. Although the doctors at the time urged his parents to institutionalize him, they ignored them and treated him like all the other kids. He had a severe speech impediment, and had to walk with a cane, but his brain was fine, and he was just one of the gang. He was never allowed to use his disability to get away with anything. One day, I am over playing with my friend, and her brother is sitting in the living room watching TV. As we go back and forth through the house, he tries to trip us with his cane, every. Single. Time. Finally, after about the sixth time, his sister grabs his cane and puts it in his bedroom two rooms away, and we bolt. He has to make his way very, very slowly down the hall to his room, holding onto the wall the whole way. On the way, he passes his mom, who is doing dishes in the kitchen.)

Brother: “Mom! [Sister] took my cane!”

Mom: “You tried to trip her. You had it coming.”

Brother: “Can you get it for me?”

Mom: “Nope. Leave your sister alone next time.”

(She went back to her dishes, and brother continued his trek. He grumbled, but he never did torment us that way again. I found that whole family the world’s best model for how to interact with folks with varying abilities: treat ’em like everyone else!)

(I am a huge “Game of Thrones” geek, and have just finished a ramble about how it’s likely that Daenerys will die during the War for the Dawn and Jon Snow will take the Iron Throne.)

Mom: “For the sake of peace in this house, I hope Jon does end up on the Iron Throne. Otherwise, you will be angry and ranting about it for months.”

(I stare at her for a good ten seconds.)

Me: “I really want to be offended by that… but I can’t; you’re absolutely right.”

(My mom got a cat she named Sandy while she was an officer in the military. Sandy was declawed in her front paws before my mom got her. When she moved to a house on a mountain, she took extra precautions to make sure Sandy was in her house at night, afraid that Sandy would be eaten by a wild animal. Come time for her to move, and the moving company comes to take her furniture. She cannot find Sandy.)

Mom: “Have you seen my cat?”

Mover #1: “Sorry, ma’am, I haven’t.”

Mom: *to another mover* “Have you seen my cat?”

Mover #2: “Sorry–“

(Suddenly, a German Shepherd with its tail between its legs darts between the mover and my mom, followed by a sand-colored streak. My mom’s jaw drops.)

Mover #2: “Ma’am, I don’t think you have to worry a thing about that cat.”

(He was right. Sandy stayed with Mom for over ten more years. Her most arduous trial was tolerating her owner’s first baby pulling her tail.)