Me: “[Daughter], where did you leave your doll?”

Daughter: “I dismembered her.”

That’s the kid equivalent of “didn’t remember”.

When I was a little kid, my parents took me to a restaurant well known for making breakfast around lunchtime. My father decided on a steak while I stuck to breakfast stuff and got eggs.

Waitress: “And how do you want your steak cooked?”

Dad: “Well done.”

Waitress: *To me* “And what would you like, little man?”

Dad: “He wanted [meal choice].”

Waitress: “And how do you want your eggs done?”

Me: “Um… well done?”

All the adults laughed at me, which I felt quite indignant about.

Waitress: “Sorry, hun, but I’m not sure our chef knows how to do that.”

Me: “But Dad’s is well done. I want it as good as Dad’s!”

This got me another round of amused laughs before my mother came to my rescue and told the waitress how I liked my eggs and my father explained to me what a “well done” steak really meant.

This answered a question that had pestered me for a while whenever we went out to eat: who would want a poorly done steak?

This happened years ago when my younger brother was very small. We have a community of Hungarians who live in our town in Germany. One year, someone had the brilliant idea to invite another Hungarian community from another town to our Christmas party. Two groups of Hungarian people sharing the experience of living in Germany, right?

Well, it didn’t take long for the adults to start arguing. Our guests insisted on kicking a family off the party, as they aren’t ethnic Hungarians, which our group disagreed with. Once the argument calmed down a bit, my younger brother went up to one of the guests.

Brother: “Why don’t you like [Woman]?”

Guest: “Her family’s bad; they’re [slur]s.”

Brother: “What did they do to be bad?”

Guest: “They don’t need to do anything. They’re [slur]s.”

Brother: “So, [slur]s are bad because they are [slur]s.”

Guest: “Yes. Finally, someone here gets it.”

Brother: “Why don’t you just say you’re Nazis?”

I was married to my son’s mother for eleven and a half years. My son called me on his twelfth birthday.

Son: “Dad, I did it! I lived with Mom longer than you did!”

I teach swimming lessons to young children. One of the mothers thinks I’m way too lax with teaching. She thinks it’s my fault her child isn’t perfect after three lessons and just “playing around”. The kid is four years old and very playful. Focusing for forty minutes straight is just too hard for them. The mother complains every lesson that her “miracle” has made “so little progress”, while the kid is progressing normally. It is important to note that I am chubby.

The child is fooling around and I say:

Me: “Ho, ho!”

As in, “Be careful!”

Child: “You sound just like Santa!”

Instead, the child’s mother hears, “You are just like Santa!”

I hear a gasp from the side of the pool and see the mother turning red. She starts waving her hands.

Mother: “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

I didn’t get any more complaints from the mother for the rest of the year. A wonderful Christmas gift from the child!