This took place a few years ago, and for some reason which I cannot remember, there was a shortage of some chicken products in my area, and unfortunately, that included frozen chicken nuggets.

I am struggling to find any crumbed frozen nuggets around. I have been going from supermarket to supermarket to find them, and all my relatives are also looking.

I am sharing my frustrations with a coworker over lunch at work when some other staff hear our conversation. Another coworker who was listening to the conversation, as we do have a small lunch room, interjects.

Coworker: “Or you could just not worry about it and make your own.”

Me: “I need them for my son, though. It’s the only way we can get him to eat meat. He doesn’t like it when I make them from scratch.”

Coworker: “Or you could just make him eat it.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s not going to work. It’s not worth the meltdown when I know he is 100% not going to eat it.”

Coworker: ‘“Sounds like you’re a soft parent. I just put food in front of my kids, and they have to eat it or they don’t eat.”

Me: “Good for you. It must be nice having kids who don’t have autism and don’t have any food aversions and will put up with that.”

Coworker: “Come on. Your son will eat it if he has no choice.”

Me: “He actually won’t. We tried the tough thing where he had to eat or didn’t eat at all. He starved himself instead. He literally will not eat it and will go to bed crying because he’s hungry but can’t bring himself to even touch those foods. And it’s not something he’s been taught, either; when he was a baby and we did baby-led weaning, I put ham and avocado on his high chair, and he screamed until he nearly passed out.”

Coworker: “Well, maybe if you do it consistently, it will work. You’re pandering to him!”

Me: “Wow. So I should just let my three-year-old starve and cry and traumatise him because a chick at work who is completely unqualified on his condition says I should? No, I’m going to listen to the professionals that I’ve been taking him to, who actually understand him and want to help him.”

Coworker: “But… I am trying to help. I have three kids, and they are older; I’ve been through the picky stage.”

Me: “No, you don’t want to help. You want to sit on your high horse and judge me, my parenting, and my son. And this isn’t a picky stage; this is a genuine condition that he will live with forever, and we are seeing professionals who are helping him learn to cope. Plus, it’s not even like he’s only eating junk food; he won’t even eat chocolate or lollies. He will only drink water, no juice or soft drinks. You have no clue, and you’re taking the opportunity to be judgy.”

My coworker got really quiet and left before her lunch break was finished.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first or the last time I’ve had a conversation like this. Thankfully, my son’s therapy has helped, and although he still avoids most foods, we have been able to get him to try some new foods. Now, he will eat beef sausages!

In my very late teens, I was asked to pet-sit for my minister and his family while they were away to visit relatives. As their cat was easily stressed out, they wanted to keep him — and therefore their other pets — at home and have someone stop by for a few hours each day to take care of them. It sounded like an easy gig for a teenager on summer holidays.

Two days before they were set to go away, his wife met with me after the church service to provide me with a list of things they’d want me to do. All of it was reasonable, except for one item on the list that read: “Juice boxes for Andy and Phil on Thursday”.

It turned out that when their son was a toddler, he loved trucks. Therefore, he loved to see the garbage truck come by every week, and in the summer, he was very worried that the garbage men would get too hot in their truck.

In the spirit of encouraging kindness and generosity, his mother allowed him to go and give the garbage men juice boxes when they came by so that they’d have something to drink.

And then they just kept doing it, giving their local garbage crew juice every week without fail. It was now a tradition that multiple garbage crews had lived through and passed onto the next. 

Yes, Andy and Phil got their juice boxes. After fifteen years, I wasn’t going to be the one to break their streak!

This story is part of the Cute roundup!

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I see a woman with her crying son, maybe five or six years old, in one of our aisles. She is crouching down, moving items out of the way.

Me: “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Customer: “It’s my son! He’s lost Mouse! He’s so distraught!”

Me: “Ma’am, are you telling me there is a mouse loose in our store?! That’s a health risk, and we need to—”

Customer: “No! You don’t have a mouse loose in your store!”

Me: “Oh…”

Customer: “Mouse is a snake.”

It turned out that she thought that was “better” and also that her kid sucks at naming animals.

“Mouse” was eventually found, and the customer was advised that it was probably best that her son not be walking around with a snake in the hood of his hoodie when out grocery shopping.

Related:
My Family And Other Animals, Part 13
My Family And Other Animals, Part 12
My Family And Other Animals, Part 11
My Family And Other Animals, Part 10
My Family And Other Animals, Part 9

My partner and I are fishing at a local park. There’s a family near the pond having a day out with grilling and games. We’re far enough away that we don’t think they’ll be a bother.

Then, a couple of their kids wander over. They’re between six and eight years old, and the parents don’t seem to notice them coming over. They start sticking random sticks and tennis rackets into the water near us, but as we’re only really there to have a good time, we leave it be. Then, the kids start running around the edge of the pond, which is all pavement. They come close to our poles, which starts worrying us. 

Suddenly, one of the kids wanders over and starts pulling on our line. We ask him to stop, and he leaves for a few minutes before coming back over and doing it again. Again, we ask him to stop. This time, we move further down the pond, hoping they’ll leave us alone. Nope. They come right back up but make a game of trying to run under our poles.

My partner finally tells them to go back to their family because they’re going to get hurt if they don’t stop. The kids run off giggling, clearly not understanding.

A parent then comes storming over.

Parent: “You threatened my kids?!” 

We explained what had happened. The parent decided that somehow, their kids trying to mess with our stuff wasn’t their problem but ours, and if we had our own kids, we’d understand. We explained that we weren’t being paid to babysit their kids, so we were not going to watch them.

Eventually, I had to go grab a park ranger, who told the parent to either watch their kids and make sure they didn’t mess with us or our stuff again, or their whole group would get kicked out.

Parents, don’t be stupid. Watch your kids.

My mom is the preschool teacher and a before- and after-school teacher at the same tiny little school — we call it a “three-room one-room schoolhouse” — that I attended as a child. Another teacher teaches kindergarten through second grade. The owner teaches grades three through six, as well as doing the admin, and I am on the roll as a substitute teacher but rarely come in because I have a full-time job. Enrollment is low enough that as long as the teachers have their appointments during the regular school day, they don’t need a sub because they have the correct ratio of staff to students.

This is not one of those days. My mom has a late-afternoon appointment, so I arrange to take the time off from my regular job and go to the school to sub. I arrive while the youngest kids (kindergarten and below) are napping; my job is to monitor naptime and then watch the after-school kids until my mom gets back. This is the first time I have been there in a while.

An important note for this story: while I am both nonbinary and intersex, I was assigned female at birth, and when this story takes place, I still identify as female.

I am sitting in the multi-purpose room with the lights on, having helped the nappers to put away their cots, when the older kids come into the room. Several of them greet me. One of the first-graders who comes in is a boy I have not met before, despite this being his second or third year at the school. Preschool and kindergarten are both half days, and I always leave before he arrives, or I arrive in the evenings well after he’s left, so I expect he’s going to have some questions. To my mild surprise, he walks right past me and begins playing.

After about half an hour, this little boy walks up to me and spreads out his arms with the biggest, most delighted smile on his face, his eyes sparkling. I instantly wonder what he’s done. I am not prepared for what he says.

Boy: *Delighted* “You don’t look like an old lady anymore!”

It takes me a full five seconds to process what he’s saying, and when I catch on, I can’t help it: I start laughing.

Me: “Oh, honey. I’m not Mrs. [Mom]. I’m her daughter.”

The boy stares at me, his expression never once changing from its broad, delighted grin. Slowly and dramatically, he crumples to the ground and sprawls out on the floor, pretending to have fainted. He scoots away on the floor without getting up, like he’s doing the backstroke, and eventually gets up and goes back to playing. He does, however, keep shooting me glances out of the corner of his eye when he thinks I’m not looking.

Finally, he walks up to me again.

Boy: “You’re not wearing a costume?”

Me: “No, this is how I really look all the time.”

He goes back to playing… sort of. A few minutes later, he comes up a third time.

Boy: “Are you sure you’re not wearing a costume?”

Me: *Trying not to laugh* “No, honey, I’m Ms. [Deadname]. I’m Mrs. [Mom]’s daughter.”

Boy: “Oh.”

I am still there when his mom arrives. I greet her. She absently greets me back. [Boy] comes back.

Boy: “This is Ms. [Deadname].”

[Boy] eyes me suspiciously, but he’s still grinning from ear to ear.

Boy: “She’s not wearing a costume.”

My mom was not at all amused when I told her this!