I occasionally volunteer for a charity that helps provide medical care to children in need. It’s late October, and there is a community event happening in the park, so we’ve set up a table to both share what we do and collect donations which I’m manning. Given the nature of the event, we are not the only charity to have set up a table.

A young boy comes up to our table. He appears to be alone, but given how many people are milling about, I just presume one of them is his parent and is keeping an eye on him.

Boy: “Are you a charity, too?”

Me: “Yes, we are. We’re [Charity].”

Boy: “What do you do?”

I give him the usual spiel and answer a few fairly standard questions he asks. After I answer his last questions, he seems to stop to think very hard for a few seconds before apparently coming to a decision.

Boy: “You seem pretty good; I’ll think about it. Thanks for talking to me.”

With that, he runs off before I can respond. I found the whole conversation a little bemusing, though the boy’s very intent expression and questions were cute. I mostly forget about it until a little while later when the boy shows back up with two women and an even younger girl in tow.

Boy: “This is the one.”

Girl: “Hi! You help sick kids?”

This girl is young enough that I decide to simplify my usual explanations a bit.

Me: “Yes, we do. We help to pay for them to go to a doctor and for the doctor to do whatever is needed for them.”

Girl: “And you make them better?”

We’re not supposed to promise that our charity will save everyone since, sadly, even with the best treatment, some children don’t pull through. So, I hedge just a bit here.

Me: “We do the best we can to make the kids we help get better. And we’ve managed to save many kids and help others who were too sick to do things get healthy enough to go back to their normal lives.”

Girl: “Do you get to meet the kids?”

Along with the other material at the table, we have some photos of children we’ve helped along with descriptions of what our charity did for them. I intentionally pick a picture of a girl around the same age as the one I’m speaking to and show it to the family as I’m talking.

Me: “No, I don’t get to; I’m busy helping in other ways. But they tell us about some of the kids. You see this little girl here? Her heart didn’t work right and it was making her very sick, but we found someone who could help fix it. Now she’s healthy and getting to go to school and play with her friends.”

Girl: “Awww. I want to help! Mom, can I pick this one?”

Mom: “Sure, you can; it’s your choice. But you have a month before you have to pick. We could wait to see if there are any charities you like better, and if you don’t find one, we can send the money to these folks closer to Christmas.”

Girl: “No, I want to help them now!”

Mom: “Okay, honey. Well then, why don’t you ask the nice man if they’re accepting cash donations here?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, we are.”

Girl: “Can I give it to him?”

[Mom] pulls out a wallet and hands a twenty-dollar bill to the girl. The girl in turn hands it over to me beaming with excitement.

Girl: “Here you go. For sick girls.”

Me: “Oh, wow! That’s a lot of money. Thank you so much! We’ll make sure we use this to help other kids. It sure is very kind of you to help other kids like that. Your mom must be very proud of you.”

Mom: “Oh, I’ve always been very proud of both kids here.” *To the girl* “And honey, I think you made a good choice. Your Mama and I give some money to this charity every year, also.”

Me: “Oh! Thank you for your contributions, as well, then.”

Mom: “Oh, it’s no problem. We try to give back to a few charities at the end of the year. Mostly we donate it all online, but we’re letting each of the kids pick a charity of their own to donate some money to this year — you know, to help them see how charity works and get more involved.”

Me: “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!”

There were a few more pleasantries I won’t bore you with before they ended up leaving my table. But what I remember most about the whole encounter was just how excited the little girl was to hand over her twenty to me. Both of the kids were adorable.

I am out with my two daughters, who are four years and ten months. We are at the checkout chatting with the cashier. 

Cashier: “What sweet children. And how fun! A little girl and a boy.”

Me: “Oh, actually two girls!”

The cashier points at my ten-month-old.

Cashier: “Oh, but she doesn’t have long hair.”

I am working as a waiter at a restaurant when I see a mother dealing with her twin boys, both about four years old. She is trying to calm them down, but they both seem to be fighting over their dessert: slices of chocolate cake.

Twin #1: “His slice is bigger than mine!”

[Twin #1] sticks his tongue out smugly.

Mother: “They both look the same to me. If they’re different, it’s by the teensiest tiniest amount!”

Twin #1: “It’s not fair! They should be the same size!”

I pass by again a few minutes later, and now both boys are crying because of a minor altercation, and the poor mother looks like she’s at the end of her tether. I also notice that the cake slices have barely been touched because of all this. I approach the mother.

Me: “Ma’am, may I suggest something? I think I can help your boys get a dessert that they’ll both be happy with.”

Mother: “You obviously haven’t met my boys! But sure, if you think you can help.”

I return with a double-sized single slice of chocolate cake. The boys are eyeing it up big time.

Me: “Hi, boys. This is a cake slice big enough for two growing boys like yourselves! You can both share this, but on one condition.”

I present a plastic butter knife, only sharp enough for slicing cake. I show the knife to the mother, who nods with her approval.

Me: “One of you cuts, and the other one chooses their slice first.”

The boys do a quick game of rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to cut the cake. The twin who gets it then starts dithering over the cake trying to make sure it’s a millimeter-perfect cut down the middle; God forbid one twin gets one grain of cake more than the other.

I remove the barely-touched slices of cake (a small price to pay for this result) and come by a few minutes later. The boys are solemnly silent, still trying to gauge the perfect slice point.

I speak to the mother, who seems to be enjoying her phone for the first time in a while.

Me: “Another coffee?”

Mother: “Yes, please!”

The boys did eventually slice the cake without argument… ten minutes later.

I am working near the African elephants and rhinos in the zoo. Their enclosures are next to each other.

Child: “Mom! What is that?”

Customer: *Pointing at a rhino.* “I think that’s some kind of elephant?”

Me: “That’s a rhino.”

Customer: “Look, [Child], it’s ‘Arhino’ the elephant!”

Me: “No, it’s just a rhino.”

Customer: “So, am I pronouncing ‘Arhino’ wrong, then? I don’t know African names.”

*This story has been provided added context by the OP.

My children are two and four. We have recently moved into a new house. My husband and I are having a “discussion” in our bedroom. My four-year-old daughter knocks on the door. I open it.

Me: “Darling, gives us some privacy. We’ll be with you soon.”

Daughter: “But…”

Me: “Courtesy, please.”

I close the door.

A few moments later, there’s another knock on the door.

Me: “Daughter, is there blood or sirens?”

Daughter: “No, but…”

Me: “Courtesy, please.”

I close the door.

Shortly after, the phone rings.

Neighbor: “Were you aware that [Two-Year-Old Son] is doing laps naked around your house?”

I rush out of the bedroom.

Daughter: “No blood or sirens, but I thought you should know.”