One day, my siblings and I go with my mother to pick up my little cousin from daycare. My cousin mispronounces his last name as “Captain,” which my mom finds adorable. When we get to his daycare, a woman announces over a loudspeaker, “[Cousin’s Full Name], dismissal! [Cousin’s Full Name], dismissal!”, and they bring him out.

As we’re walking through the parking lot, my mom, as usual, asks my cousin, “What’s your name?” This time, he answers, “[Cousin] Captain Missile!”

I am stocking an aisle in the grocery store. Our store has a small cafe where children aged five and under eat for free. I overhear a mother talking to her young son.

Mother: “Remember, [Son], we’re pretending you’re five, okay?”

Son: “But, Mommy, I’m six!”

Mother: “Yes, but let’s pretend, okay?”

Son: “Does this mean I don’t need to go to school tomorrow?”

Mother: “What? No! Of course, you need to go to school.”

Son: “But six-year-olds go to school. Five-year-olds stay home and play!”

Mother: “Well, tomorrow, you’ll be six.”

Son: “So, tomorrow is my birthday?!”

Mother: “What? No—”

Son: “Yay! Presents!”

She paid for his meal.

I work in an independently-owned woodfire pizza and burger shop. We have an American diner feel to the place and one of our walls is a collage of cut-out pictures of old cars, movies, pinup girls, and so on.

A father has come in for lunch with his handicapped teenage son. My boss is cooking their food while I make the father his coffee at the front of the shop. I have the biggest smile on my face watching how wrapped up in our picture wall the son is.

Son: “Look, Daddy, it’s Elvis!”

Father: “Yes, Son.”

Son: “Do you like Elvis, Daddy?”

Father: “Yep, he’s great.”

Son: “ELVIS, ELVIS, ELVIS, ELVIS!”

The son then starts looking at the other pictures and, to his father’s horror and my absolute delight, he points at a pinup girl…

Son: “Look, Daddy! A STRIPPER!”

The father proceeded to turn a violent shade of red and I had to quickly run to the back of the shop to avoid being caught almost wetting myself! Sir, your boy is absolutely gorgeous and he made my week! I hope you enjoyed your coffee!

I’m babysitting two small children, a five-year-old and a three-year-old. These two children are trilingual, while I am not. By virtue of spending a lot of time with these kids, I can understand a moderate amount in German and a small amount in Russian but can’t speak in either language. 

Today on the agenda is swimming lessons, and when we finish, I herd them towards the elevators so we can head back to their house. As we get there, we approach a family who is speaking Russian. The five-year-old is always psyched to find other people who speak her languages, so she strikes up a conversation with the two little girls.

As happens with regularity, the mother turns to me and starts speaking to me in Russian. I explain that I’m their babysitter and I’m woefully monolingual. The five-year-old then launches into an explanation — in Russian — of who speaks what language in her family, since not everyone speaks all three.

She makes a mistake and I correct her in English, which leads to some weird looks from the mother of the other family. I explain that I can understand a little bit, but I don’t speak it. The mother asks why I don’t speak it or learn to speak it, and the five-year-old interjects with a bit of Russian I don’t understand. 

The mother starts laughing, while the five-year-old gives a cheeky grin. The mother tells me that the kid told her I’m a bad student, which is why I don’t speak it. I also laugh, because that assessment comes from her trying to teach me Russian words for months but giving up because she didn’t like my decidedly American pronunciation. Good thing she wasn’t grading me.

I am folding shirts in the girls’ clothing section. A mother is picking out dresses and showing them to her daughter for approval. Her daughter is maybe five years old. She holds up a white, ruffled dress to show her.

Mother: “Oh, this is so pretty! What do you think?”

The daughter thinks for a bit and then wrinkles her nose in disapproval.

Daughter: “But Mommy, it’s too… angel-y.”

Suddenly, the daughter narrows her eyes, bares her teeth like fangs, and lets out a death growl that would rival a metal vocalist while pumping her fist in the air. 

Daughter: “I WANNA LOOK LIKE THE DEVIL!”