When I was a teenager and didn’t have quite all my common sense in place yet, my uncle was hosting a BIG party because a notable family member was turning eighty. Once the house was fully prepared, I thought that the best way to distract the kiddos and get all their wiggles out was to play my Tossing Game with them.

In the back room, I put a mattress on the floor, piled all the pillows in the house on top, and one at a time began to spin each toddler cousin, nephew, and assorted hanger-on in a big circle going, “One… two… three!”, before throwing them into the pile.

The kiddos love the Tossing Game. They’d crash, clamber out, and jump right back in line for another turn.

It took me a while to realise that there were suddenly MORE kids than I remembered throwing. Like, a lot more. Guests had started to arrive, and every. Single. Little. Kid. Immediately found their way to the back room to join in. I’d gone from seven to twenty-one.

Now, it took a bit, but then Teenager [Me] realised that maybe throwing STRANGERS’ kids might be a problem.

To solve this, I promptly went out of the back room with the gaggle of twenty toddlers to loudly ask the party at large:

Me: “Hey, is it okay if I throw your kids at a wall?”

At that point, the eighty-year-old guest of honour decided that rather than socialising with all his friends, HE’D like to throw the kids at the wall, too, thanks.

For many years, my family would take trips with other family members. All of these trips had one thing in common: my aunt, uncle, and cousins would be late for everything. This used to really irritate my parents, who are pretty punctual and had a lot more kids to organise (four of us) compared to my two cousins.

By mutual agreement, any other family involved in these outings decided to go along with my parents and give [Aunt] and [Uncle] the wrong time. For example, if an event started at 11:00 am, they’d be told 10:00 am. This was pretty effective until [Aunt] and [Uncle] started realising they were being given the wrong time. I believe other family members explained why that was and that they were fed up with always waiting on them or being late.

[Aunt] and [Uncle] weren’t very self-aware and didn’t realise they were the issue, so they decided that it wasn’t their fault and told my parents:

Aunt & Uncle: “Give us the right time from now on, and you’ll see we aren’t the problem!”

My parents (especially my mam) hate the idea of people missing out on something, but they are also prepared to let a natural consequence occur if it’s not too harsh.

The very next week, we had a day trip booked on the ferry. This was something we did once a year, over to the UK and back in one day. It was fondly known as a “booze cruise” back in the day due to the opportunity to purchase cheap alcohol. Kids would explore the ship and when we docked, we’d raid the pick-n-mix and buy confections that we couldn’t get at home. It was something everyone looked forward to a lot. (What can I say? It was the early 1990s.)

With the best will in the world, the ferry waits for no man. So, it was a sad day for four people who were told the ferry left at 8:00 am sharp (the correct time) and who arrived after 8:30 to see a small, ferry-shaped speck in the distance, heading toward the UK.

Sadly, it didn’t make them any more punctual after that, but they were always told the correct time as requested, and if they were late, we didn’t wait anymore. For months, whenever we’d see them after that, my parents used to cheerily wave and say, “Ferry nice to see you!”

Related:
Time Is Just A Social Construct, Or Something

Thanksgiving of 2023 was rough on my two-year-old nephew. His house was full of strange people, Mommy was too busy to pick him up, he had to share his swingset, Dada was ALSO too busy to pick him up, and the adults TURNED HIS CARTOONS OFF to watch football. 

Dinner itself went well, Mommy and Dada were able to pay more attention to him once the meal was over, and he even warmed up a little to some of the less familiar family members in the house, but he remained fussy.

And then, he latched onto a word that the grownups around the kitchen counter were repeating: “mimosa.” The grownups kept saying this word and drinking something that looked pretty good, so, naturally…

Nephew: *Whining* “I wan’ ‘mosa! Wan’ ‘mosa!”

He was quickly picked up by Mommy, given a cup of orange juice, and allowed to do “cheers” with the grownups. He happily drank his “mosa” while the grownups had their mimosas.

My husband and I recently quietly divorced, but we have agreed to remain friends and co-parent our teenage child.

At the next Christmas dinner, my hyper-religious aunt waits until everyone is seated to ask why we aren’t wearing our wedding rings. Our son looks uncomfortable and I am ready to slap her into next week, but [Ex-Husband] puts his hand over mine and squeezes gently.

Ex-Husband: “We don’t want to.”

Aunt: “Why?”

Ex-Husband: “Because we choose not to.”

Aunt: “But why? Unless you divorced and didn’t tell anyone, you should wear your rings!”

She gives me a triumphant look as if she has caught me in some big lie and she is just waiting for me to confess. We have told people; we just haven’t made a big deal out of it given the reason for our divorce. [Ex-Husband] has a death grip on my fist now, willing me to be quiet and still.

Ex-Husband: “We did divorce, [Aunt].”

Aunt: “Sinners! You know our Lord and Savior does not allow divorce!”

I laugh.

Aunt: *In an over-dramatic tone* “How can you be laughing? Why would you stray so far from the Lord? A divorce! What could be so bad that you could not mend your marriage?”

Ex-Husband: “Well, we both like men.” *Looks down the table* “Can somebody pass the cranberry sauce?”

[Aunt] looked like she would faint on the spot. The meal carried on with [Aunt] glaring at us every once in a while. She hasn’t said a word to me or [Ex-Husband] in years. Honestly, it’s quite nice.

My father-in-law remarried when his sons were adults, and the sons refused to call his new wife their stepmother. I always wondered why they disliked her so much because she was very cordial the two or three times I had met her thus far.

During Christmas, the family came together. My brother-in-law was about to become a second-time father and proudly announced:

Brother-In-Law: “Yesterday, we received the news: it’s going to be a girl this time!”

We all rejoiced, except for [Father-In-Law]’s wife.

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “A girl? Are you sure? The doctor must be mistaken.”

Brother-In-Law: “I’d like to think this woman knows what she is talking about.”

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “Impossible. Men in our family only have sons!”

Our family? You married into this one!

My Husband: “Eh… what about Aunt [Father-In-Law’s Sister]?”

Father-In-Law’s Wife: “Just a fluke. And she looks like a man, anyway. So, mark my words, it’s going to be a boy! Otherwise, you should get a paternity test.”

Everyone stared at each other, lost for words. In hindsight, [Brother-In-Law] should have gotten up and left, or someone should have spoken up, but we were just too stunned to do or say anything. 

[Father-In-Law] passed away a few months after his last grandchild’s birth — she was indeed a girl — and it seems only I can remain civil to her, so I am her main source of contact concerning the testament and will. I completely understand why my husband’s family doesn’t want to talk to her at all.