When my kids were pretty young — the oldest was four, the middle three, and the youngest six months — I transferred jobs, and my husband and I purchased a used twenty-four-foot travel trailer to live in until we could financially afford to get into an apartment or house in the town near my work.

It was about a week before December, we had been living in the trailer since the beginning of October, and we had already found an apartment to move to but were waiting for December 1st to move in.

My sister (who I always thought had similar views on children and what they should and shouldn’t watch as I did) had allowed my kids to watch the movie “Tremors” while they were at her house, and my kids loved the movie. It made them afraid to go to sleep at night, but that is a different issue we had to work through.

On this particular day, the children couldn’t really play outside much since it was snowing for the first time that season and it had been very cold recently. To entertain themselves, my two oldest children were playing inside on the bed. Their favorite game at the time was one they called “dirt monsters”, which was their phrase for the creatures from the “Tremors” movies. The game consisted of one of the kids being on the bed and the other falling off it and clinging to the side calling the other for help to save them from the dirt monster. The child on the bed would then pull them to safety. Sometimes imaginary guns were involved to shoot the dirt monsters.

After they had played this for quite a while, we ate dinner and then got them ready for bed. We used to sing songs with the kids at bedtime. One song the kids always loved was “Jingle Bells”, but for my sanity, my rule was that we would only sing “Jingle Bells” when there was snow on the ground; otherwise, we would be singing it in the summertime, and that was always kind of weird. So, since there was snow that particular day, we sang a very, very rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells”, practically shouting the last part.

As we sang the very last bit there was a knock on our door. I thought perhaps we were bothering the neighbors with our singing and someone was there to complain. But it was much different. When we opened the door, there were two police officers standing outside. I then thought that we must have really annoyed our neighbors for them to call the police on us with a noise complaint, even though it wasn’t that late — only about 8:00 pm.

The officer was very polite but what he said kind of shocked us. Our neighbors in the RV park had called them, yes, not to report noise, but to report possible child endangerment.

One of our neighbors — we never knew who — heard our children playing dirt monsters and calling for help so they called and informed the police that they heard a child calling for help and that they sounded distressed.

We explained the kids’ game to the officers. I can’t remember all the questions they asked as this was about seventeen years ago now, but I remember that we explained to them that our living situation was temporary and that we were moving in around a week. The kids, who were thrilled that uniformed police officers were there, were crowded around them asking them questions and very much not looking like abused children. The officers then said that they didn’t see any problems and eventually left.

I don’t blame the neighbors that called, especially if they really thought that one of our kids was in danger, but I was confused about how they could hear the kids’ cries for help but not hear their laughter or excited squeals when they were playing. Mainly, I was just so embarrassed because we had five people at the time living in a twenty-four-foot trailer, so it was crowded, cluttered, and chaotic, not to mention that we had just eaten dinner so there were dishes still on the counter. Also, I knew the town newspaper had a police blotter section where they listed all the police calls of the week. It was a small town, and I wasn’t quite sure how extensively they reported the calls and whether our names would be mentioned. (They weren’t.)

It definitely made for a story we had to tell for years about when we got the police called on us. Thankfully, they didn’t decide we were unfit due to the clutter and mess.

The new “Mario” movie has just come out, and my girlfriend and I — huge fans — get tickets weeks in advance for the opening Friday showing at 8:00 pm at the fancier movie theater one town over. We make it a true date night as we have to drive forty-five minutes to get here.

As expected, the theater is absolutely packed, and we are thankful for the allocated seating. There are long lines at the box office for those buying tickets for later showings as the current ones are all sold out.

A mother with her young son is standing to the side. The boy is crying because, most likely, he’s not going to get to see Mario tonight. I feel for the little guy, and the mother and I make brief eye contact. This was a mistake.

Mother: “Sorry, [Son], but the movie is sold out. Maybe this nice man and his girlfriend will give us their tickets if you ask nicely?”

The kid wanders up to us.

Child: “Excuse me, sir. Would you give us your tickets?”

Me: “No.”

The child looks like he’s about to cry, but then the mother barges up to me.

Mother: “You a**hole! He asked politely!”

Me: “Yes, he was polite, but these are my tickets, and my girlfriend and I are looking forward to seeing this movie.”

The poor child has started crying.

Mother: “Look at what you did to him! You’re causing him emotional distress!”

Me: “He’s learning that sometimes things don’t go his way. That’s not emotional distress; that is just life. He’ll be fine. What isn’t fine is his mother waltzing into a movie theater on the opening day of the biggest animated movie of the year expecting to find tickets available when everyone else pre-booked online weeks ago.”

Mother: “I am a busy single mother; I don’t have time to make online bookings!”

Me: *Looking at the movie theater’s app* “They have plenty of seats tomorrow morning. Go then.”

We get in line for popcorn, and I think that’s the end of it. Then, I see the mother come back with a member of staff. 

Manager: “Excuse me, sir, I am the manager here. This woman is claiming you have her tickets?”

Me: “Seriously? Is that what she told you?”

I show him my tickets and the booking on the app on my phone that matches. The manager turns back to the fuming mother.

Manager: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but these are his tickets.”

Mother: “This is a d*** kids’ movie! They don’t have kids! They don’t deserve to be taking seats that kids need!”

Manager: “Everyone is welcome to see this movie, ma’am, regardless of age. We have showings available at 11:00 pm still, but if that’s too late for your child, then we have plenty of Saturday morning shows available that might be more appro—”

Mother: “F*** this! This world discriminates against working mothers! You’re all causing my child emotional distress!”

In bad timing for her, her child had actually found himself a little corner and was playing a game on his Nintendo Switch. Yes… it was Mario.

Seeing that we weren’t budging and the manager wasn’t on her side, the woman just snarled at us and stormed out of the lobby, her poor son in tow. I felt bad for the poor kid, but the sooner he learns that his mom’s entitlement and tantrums won’t win her any prizes the better.

I work as a lifeguard while in high school. One afternoon, a boy, eight years old or so, assumes the diving position at the edge of the shallow end of the pool.

Me: “That water isn’t deep enough; you might hit your head on the bottom of the pool if you dive there! You can dive into the deeper water at the other end.”

A few minutes later, he comes back and tries to dive into the shallow water again. As I start to “remind” him that diving isn’t allowed there, his mother comes over.

Mother: “How dare you tell my boy what he can and cannot do here?! If he wants to dive here, you’d better d*** well let him! You don’t tell him what to do.”

Yet again, I explain that the rule is for his safety and the safety of the small children playing in the water where her son is trying to dive. Her response?

Mother: “If he cracks his skull open, it’s his own problem, not yours!“

Me: “Ma’am, since I am the lifeguard on duty at the moment, your son’s fractured skull would indeed be my problem.”

She gathered up her kid and stormed out.

I am at our local Chinese restaurant for some takeout. While my order is being made, a mother and her around-eight-year-old boy come in. Right after she places her order, the mother grabs her phone and starts calling, obviously continuing a conversation.

Mother: “Yes, we ordered [dish]; it’s the only thing he eats.”

The kid goes to the big aquarium and starts tapping.

Mother: “Sweetie, don’t tap the glass. Anyway, [some talk about shoes]. Sweetie, don’t tap the glass. So, as I said…”

She has to ask it four more times before he stops. I doubt he stops because she asked it; he just got bored of it. Instead, he starts playing drums on the empty chairs.

Mother: “Come on, [Boy], don’t be so noisy. So, and then, [more story time]. [Boy], come on. Our order must be done soon.”

Boy: “I want ice cream!”

Mother: “You can have that after dinner.”

Boy: “I want it now!”

The boy throws himself at the ground — not to throw a tantrum, but to just… “swim” on his back, over the carpet, throughout the restaurant.

Mother: “[Boy], get up, please? Come on. People can’t walk like this.”

The mother asks five more times, not moving from her chair and not putting her phone away, and keeps on talking to her friend. And then, she sighs.

Mother: “Being a single mom is so hard…”

I was flabbergasted. Yes, I know being a single mom is hard and you can be very tired after a whole day of struggling, but seriously… put your phone away and get off your butt!

I’ve been a housekeeper at various hotels for many years. I don’t have children, but anyone who has ever been a child, met a child, or had to clean up after a child knows that their messes can get pretty destructive. I can instantly tell when a child has been in any hotel room I’ve had to clean — fruit gummies, cracker pieces, snack crumbs, and questionable sticky smears all over the floors and usually every other surface, etc.

One day, I’m at work and I have a lot of rooms to do, and they are pretty bad today. A hockey team has just come through and booked most of the hotel, and the hockey crowd is usually pretty messy. 

I’m in one of the rooms cleaning up the ungodly mess when I see a little boy, maybe eight years old, exit the room across the hall from the room I’m in. He just stands there all bundled up for the winter, presumably waiting for his parents to follow him out of the room. Pretty soon, the room door opens, and out follow his parents along with two younger siblings:  another boy about six years old and a little girl who is around three or four.

They leave with their luggage — which housekeepers always keep an eye on because when waiting for rooms to free up for cleaning, there’s not a moment to lose — so I pop my head out and check the room number they’ve left from. I reference my list of rooms to see if it’s assigned to me or a different housekeeper. It’s my room. 

I groan internally, anticipating the enormous mess I’ll have to deal with from three young children once I get into that room. I finish the room I’m currently working on, close the door, and take a deep breath before letting myself into the next room — the one I know will be trashed by the three young children.

I open the door, bracing myself for a bloodbath of piles of trash, scattered food, sticky messes, and other forms of chaos children on vacation leave in their wake. To my absolute shock, the room is one of the tidiest and cleanest I have ever stepped foot in, in all my years of housekeeping.

There is zero trash anywhere other than a few discarded items in the provided trash bins, surfaces are crystal clean, there are zero floor crumbs, and there is not one gummy candy, fish cracker, or juice box to be found. They even tidied both beds to where they almost looked freshly made. They used only a couple of towels and stacked them neatly next to the bathroom door. (Most families use every single provided towel and washcloth and leave them in a giant sopping wet pile inside the bathtub, which is a nightmare to pick up, because it’s extremely heavy, not to mention kind of gross.)

I’m flabbergasted, to say the least. It takes me record time to thoroughly clean and sanitize the room for the next guest(s), and I’m very grateful to the family for being so conscientious and for the immaculate state they left their room. If I hadn’t seen the family with three young children in tow physically leaving the room with my own eyes, no amount of convincing would have gotten me to believe that there had been anyone in that room other than one single neat-freak adult.

Thank you, random family, for making my otherwise rough day that much easier. You rock.