(I am with my daughter and three-year-old granddaughter, taking her to a children’s store where you can build your own stuffed teddy bears. Part of the process is to pick the “heart” of your bear.)

Employee: *to Granddaughter* “This is the heart of your bear.”

Granddaughter: *eyes wide* “Ooh.”

Employee: “You need to give it a kiss, before we put it in your bear. That way your bear knows that you love him.”

(She kisses the “heart,” and then it’s placed into the stuffing in the bear’s chest. It’s then sent off to be made, with all the customised eyes, noses, clothes, etc. Later, we’re home, and my granddaughter comes over with her new bear.)

Granddaughter: “Heart.”

Me: “Yes, darling, your bear has a big heart.”

Granddaughter: “I want my heart.”

Me: “What do you mean, darling?”

Granddaughter: “It’s my heart.” *thrusts bear at me* “I want it.”

Me: “Oh, no, dear. The heart stays inside the bear. That’s how he knows you love him. He needs it to stay inside him.”

(My granddaughter ponders this for a moment, and then smiles.)

Granddaughter: “Okay!”

(She then wanders away. I follow her and see her looking around the kitchen.)

Me: *thinking she wants a snack* “What are you looking for, darling?”

Granddaughter: “Scissors.”

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(My dad brings us kids a movie to watch every night. This movie is rated PG.)

Kid: *on screen* “S*** happens.”

Other Character: “Uh, what?”

Kid: *pronouncing it clearly* “S***. Happens.”

Dad: *starts laughing*

Me: “Um, Dad? I don’t get it. What’s funny?”

Sister: “Yeah, what’s ‘s***’ mean?”

Dad: *shaking head, still laughing* “Never you mind; it’s a bad word. Only grownups can say it!”

Me: “But a kid is saying it…”

(Dad ignored me and continued to laugh. Later, I understood what it meant, but I still think it was stupid joke. Movies waste a lot of money to make stupid jokes for stupid people, I guess.)

(I am home at my grandparents’ house for the holidays. My uncle pops over with my eight-year-old cousin to say hello. While my uncle goes off to find my grandfather and ask him something, my cousin hangs out with me in the living room. My grandparents have lived in the same house for over fifty years. My sister and I lived there in our teens due to some family issues, and I spent summers there during college. My grandfather still refers to the bedroom I used as my bedroom, though I haven’t lived there for over five years, and it was my uncle’s before it was mine and my mother’s before that. It has since been converted to a guest room.)

Cousin: “Are you staying for Christmas?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m staying until the day after.”

Cousin: “Are you staying at Grandpa’s?”

Me: “That’s the plan.”

Cousin: “In your room?”

Me: “Well, it’s not really my room anymore. Anyone can use it. Besides, before it was my room, it was your dad’s room!”

Cousin: “No!”

Me: “Yeah!”

Cousin: “The house isn’t old enough!”

(My grandparents’ house is over 100 years old. I am 27 and his poor dad is only 35.)

When I was little, my mom was trying to teach me to wash my hands after I went to the bathroom. She told me that germs would climb onto my hands from the toilet, and that if I didn’t wash my hands to kill them, they might make me sick.

At that time, I didn’t realize that she meant that there were germs already on the toilet, and thus even flushing the toilet would contaminate my hands. I thought she meant that as I went to the bathroom, the germs would climb up my body, specifically trying to get to my hands so they could make me sick.

This led to a few years of me using the bathroom while holding my hands as far out as I could, so that the germs would have farther to climb. If my arms touched my upper body, for example, the germs could take the shortcut through my elbows and get to my hands sooner. If I took too long, there were germs all over my hands, and I needed to wash them. If I was fast enough, though, the germs hadn’t had a chance to get to my hands, and I didn’t have to wash them.

I am very sure that that was not the lesson my mother meant to teach me, but it’s the lesson my young self learned.

(Like most toddlers, my daughter loves playing with keys. I usually try to deter her from taking my husband’s set — which includes his work keys and parking fob — too far away, by telling her they’re important. She has gotten some new toys from a relative while being babysat at my sister-in-law’s house. One of the toys is a plastic car key with a fake button fob.)

Daughter: “Where’s key?”

Sister-In-Law: “I don’t know; I think it was over there a little while ago.”

Daughter: “It’s important! “

(She then walked out of the room, repeating that it was important. Well played, little parrot.)