(On the morning of my son’s two-year-old “well-child” checkup, he wakes up unusually grumpy. Shockingly, the news that he has to go to see the pediatrician does not improve his mood, so in an effort to get him to stop whining in the back of the car, I make an absolute rookie mistake. I promise him that after his appointment, I will take him on a trip to his favorite place. I then discover that I have the kind of two-year-old who neither understands nor accepts the concept of “after,” and as such, the following interaction happens at least six times in the next 45 minutes:)

Son: *wordlessly bawling at the top of his lungs*

Nurse: “Oh, no, what’s the matter?”

Son: “I WANT TO GO TO TARGET.”

Nurse: “Me, too, honey. Me, too.”

(At least he did not scream at the doctor. Instead, he gently wept and whispered, “Please. Target.”)

I’m ringing up a customer who is buying chocolate bars with his young daughter. She’s probably four years old. He pays and then goes to put the two chocolate bars in his jacket pocket when his daughter stops him.

Daughter:
“Dad! No! Don’t do that! It will make a mess!”

Customer:
“It’s okay. They will be fine”

Daughter:
“Trust me, Dad. I have years of experience with putting chocolate in my pockets!”

(I work at a pet store. My manager and I are clocking out of our shift. The phone in the office rings. After waiting a bit for someone on the clock to pick it up, my manager sighs and hits it on speaker.)

Manager: “Hi, this is [Store]. How can I help you?”

Child: *sounding no more than eight or nine years old* “Um, hi, uh, I was wondering if you guys got any bearded dragons in?”

Manager: “We did.”

Child: *excited gasp* “Okay! Bye!”

(The “customer” hung up, and my manager — who is a mom — immediately burst into giggles. It was very cute.)

(I’m a young woman with an alternative, kind of gothic-like taste of clothing. Today, I happen to be at a kind of a “girly” store — the place where people generally least expect me to be — and I’m wearing black flared jeans that are covered with rings, chains, and straps. A little girl, about four years old, approaches me.)

Girl: *staring in awe at my jeans* 

Me: “Hi there. You like my jeans?”

(The girl rushes to her mom, pulling her shirt to get her attention.)

Girl: “Mommy, mommy! That lady wears weird pants! But they’re cool! Oh, Mommy, can I get those, too?”

Mother: “When you get older, hun. I don’t believe they come in your size.”

(She then smiled at me, and the little girl looked like I’d made her day. Well, she made mine by thinking I look cool! A welcome relief to all the usual loathing looks, that’s for sure.)

(I am sixteen and a lesbian. I am ringing up a couple with their son.)

Mother: “You’re a very nice and polite and beautiful young lady! You’ll have no trouble finding a husband.”

Me: “Well, I’m actually a lesbian, but thank you. I’m sure I’ll find a wife.”

(All of a sudden, the mother frowns, and then grabs her groceries off the belt.)

Mother: “I’m not letting some homosexual touch my groceries! What kind of example will this set for my child?!”

(I am too shocked to respond. That’s when a voice from below speaks up.)

Son: “Mommy, didn’t you say that love is the most important thing? So does it matter is she loves boys or if she loves girls, as long as she loves them?”

(The mother’s face turned beet red from embarrassment. I was so proud of this kid and to this day I still am.)