My sister and I share godparents — a married couple who are old friends of my parents. Officially, the guy is my sister’s godparent and the wife is mine, but unofficially, we share!

I am six years old, my sister is eight, and my mum has just had her third child, our baby brother. Realising that she is in need of some peace and quiet, my godparents take my sister and me to an aquarium somewhere for the day.

We spend the day looking at all the different fish and some small sharks, and we eventually end up in the gift shop. I find a rubber bouncy ball I absolutely have to have; it’s half-blue, half-clear, with three small plastic dolphins positioned to look as though they’re jumping out of the blue half. Six-year-old me thinks it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I read the price tag, knowing my mum gave me a small amount of money to spend on the trip. However, being six, I also can’t resist the pick and mix stand! I put a small amount of candy in the paper bag and notice that they don’t have a scale out to measure how much it will be (and it’s priced by weight).

When I get to the till, the lady scans my sweets and ball and tells me the total. Whilst my weight estimation for the sweets turns out to be very accurate, I have misread the price tag for the ball and am £1 short. I begin to have what I think was my first ever panic attack. Being six years old, short of money, without my mum, and very scared of being thrown in retail jail — and completely unaware that I am fully allowed to just put the sweets back! — I am a few seconds short of either hyperventilating or crying or both.

Out of nowhere, my godmother appears by my side and senses the situation. She wordlessly reaches into her pocket and slides a £1 coin across the counter to the saleswoman. I say thank you (A LOT) but she brushes it off as no big deal. It was a huge deal; I needed a mum and she stepped right in.

She died recently (she had kidney failure my whole life), and only after speaking to some people did I find out that she did the same thing on a much larger scale for my University graduation. Knowing that my best friend, who lived over 150 miles away, couldn’t afford the hotel or travel, my lovely godparents picked her up, drove the entire way, and paid for her hotel room just so that they could all see me graduate.

She was utterly selfless, and I miss her endlessly.

I teach younger children. One school assignment is for kids to make a poster about themselves, answering a few questions such as when they were born and what their favorite things were. Every day, we have a few kids present their poster, explaining things they had on it and answering questions from the class.

Today, the girl presenting is a very sweet and smart child who has a tendency to be a bit precocious, as her parents are very open and honest with her, resulting in her knowing things most parents hide from kids.

Girl: “And when I grow up, I want to be a programmer and a surrogate!”

Almost immediately, a kid asks what a surrogate is, but I make them wait until after the girl’s presentation. When the presentation is over, plenty of hands go up for questions. I’m not surprised when the second student called on has this question: 

Student #1: “What’s a serra-git?”

Girl: “A surrogate is someone who helps women who can’t get pregnant but really want to have a baby. She will be pregnant for them and then give them the baby when it’s born.”

[Student #1] blurts out without raising her hand again, sounding shocked:

Student #1: “You have to give away your babies?”

Girl: “It doesn’t have to be your baby. There are two kinds of surrogates. One type, it is your baby, but you promise to let the mom and dad have it, but the other type, the mom and dad make the baby with a doctor’s help, and then they just put it in you for the pregnancy. I’d do the one where it wasn’t my baby at first because it’s supposed to be easier. But I might do the one where it’s my baby, too, if the surrogate is open so I would still get to visit the baby but I wouldn’t be the mom.”

I’m torn on how to handle this. On the one hand, some parents will get angry if any topic remotely touching on sex, sexuality, or where babies come from is ever discussed in my classroom, even if I’m not the one discussing it, so I know I risk angry parents just from this answer. I know the best thing to do would probably be to stop taking questions now to avoid this topic getting any more dangerous.  

That being said, I also personally believe parents try too hard to shelter their kids, and all the current research and child psychologists I’ve read seem to agree with me on that topic. I have always been frustrated that I couldn’t answer reasonable questions kids have out of concern for parents’ responses.

This little girl is the perfect example of that; I know her parents tell her everything and she clearly understands it, and still, she grew up well adjusted and kind. I don’t like the idea of shutting the girl down from giving sincere answers just because parents may complain, especially since only two questions have been asked, and the kids may notice she got fewer questions than most and wonder why. In the end, my own curiosity to see how she will answer future questions wins out, and I decide to let a few more questions go despite risking irate parents.

Student #2: “Can you be a programmer and a surrogate?”

Girl: “Yes. You can be pregnant while programming, but I might have to take a day off to have the baby.”

Student #3: “Why do you want to be a surrogate?”

Girl: “My parents had me using a surrogate. They couldn’t do the kind where the baby is made by the mom and dad, so I’m actually made of partly my dad and partly my surrogate; we call her Aunt [Surrogate], but she isn’t really my aunt. She visits me sometimes and is really fun to play with, and my mom and dad are always thanking her for helping them have me because they love me so much. She made my mom and dad really happy by helping, and I want to do that for other moms and dads. Also, some moms and dads will pay lots of money for one, so it could help pay for college or something if I needed money.”

Student #4: “How does the baby get in the surrogate?”

Now here is a truly dangerous question for me, and I immediately start trying to think of how to interrupt this answer delicately when the girl beats me to it.

Girl: “Umm… a doctor helps with the one kind, but that’s all I’m allowed to say. You’re supposed to ask your mom or dad.”

Thankful for the discretion of this girl and her parents, I took the out here and ended question time after this question. I thanked the girl for her lovely answers and we moved on to the next child.

I eventually learned that at least one child ended up asking their parents some awkward questions about how babies were made thanks to this discussion, though, luckily, I didn’t actually get any angry parents blaming me this time.

Personally, I thought the young girl had a wonderful plan for adulthood. She is clearly smart enough and gifted enough in math to be a programmer, and I sincerely hope she does get to be a surrogate when she’s old enough.

I grew up in a very small rural community with only one school — the same one my father and his sister grew up attending. Some of the teachers are still there when I get into the school, so they recognize my last name and ask if I’m related to my dad or my aunt.

This one takes the cake. On the first day of class my senior year, the teacher was taking attendance. It was a service learning class, so we gathered in the cafeteria, took roll, and then went to where we needed to go — usually the elementary school. There was a group of freshmen having a study hall across the room.

Teacher: “[My First Name]…” *long pause* “…[Last Name]. Wait a minute. [Last Name]?”

The teacher looked around the room and then zeroed in on me.

Teacher: “Okay, you have got to be related to [Dad], right?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s my dad.”

Teacher: “Oh, wow. [Dad] had kids? Huh, he was a troublemaker back in the day…  I suspended him more times than I could count.”

Me: “My dad has five kids. In fact…”

I stood up and called my sister’s name. She looked over and waved.

Me: “That’s his second kid right over there. The rest are younger. Next year, one will be a freshman, but the other two have a couple of years before they hit high school.”

Teacher: “How many boys does he have?”

Me: “Two. Next year, one will be at this school.”

Teacher: “I think I’ve just decided to retire.”

My sisters and I weren’t troublemakers, but we couldn’t say the same for my brother, who was a freshman the year after I graduated. The principal definitely recognized my dad when he came to collect my brother and jokingly asked my dad how he raised two wonderful kids like my sister and me. My dad’s response?

Dad: “I think my genetics only passed on to the boys. The other one will be here in a few years, so I’ll be seeing you then, too.”

And he did. My brothers did eventually grow out of the troublemaker phase, but it took them a few years!

I was at a flea market at closing time. A vendor offered me two kindergarten-level puzzles for free. I declined, saying I didn’t know any small children. He insisted I take them, so I thanked him and accepted them just to end the conversation.

I took them home and forgot about them.

A while later, a relative by marriage visited us, bringing her children who were aged seven and ten. The kids found the puzzles and started playing with them. I did not care; I had no attachment to the puzzles.  

Their mother was incensed.

Relative: “My kids put together 1000-piece puzzles!”

Me: “That’s nice. I did not give them these. They just grabbed them.”

And when they left, they took them with them.

My mother was pregnant and about to give birth at the hospital. It was early in July and my mother was sweating profusely due to the effort of labor and the heatwave. A nurse gave my father a wet washcloth, assuming my father would wipe my mother’s face with it. Instead, he pressed it on her mouth and nose and started screaming:

Father: “Breathe! Breathe!”

A few minutes later, my brother was born safely. The nurses were still laughing. To this day, my father claims he doesn’t remember.