When I was in first grade, our bus had a stop at the corner by my house on [X Street] and a second stop at the fire hall located across the alley and main road, behind my house, for all of the kids on [Y Street]. Typically, I caught my bus at the corner stop, but I thought the stop at the fire hall was so much cooler since the kids got to cross the main road.

One day, on the way to school, I wrote a note and signed my mom’s name on it, giving myself permission to get off the bus at the fire hall with all of my friends. Keep in mind, I was six years old with nothing but crayons and some old worksheets in my book bag, and no knowledge of cursive handwriting. You can imagine how ridiculous that permission note looked.

The school accepted it. My mom had a field day telling the school administrators about themselves.

(I’m sitting in Spanish class when I overhear this conversation:)

Teacher: “You had the whole weekend to work on this paper. Why didn’t you do it?”

Student: “I couldn’t send emails!”

(It was a paper assignment.)