(I’m working the front desk at a chain hotel when a couple with a baby comes in. They check in without issue and head up to their room. About ten minutes later, the father enters the lobby and approaches me looking nervous.)

Father: “I found a mouse under the heater in our room.”

Me: “Oh, my. Sir, I am—”

Father: “No, it’s okay. It was dead.”

(He places a wireless computer mouse on the counter; I am very relieved.)

Father: “Sorry. I’m a dad now. I couldn’t resist that.”

(I’m a fairly innocent kid. When I’m in seventh grade, I’m ecstatic to get the part of a Lost Boy in my school’s production of “Peter Pan.” My character, Pans, wears a pot on his head at all times. My mother begins hatching a plot when I come home with the pot, and that night she springs into action.)

Mom: “Hey, [My Name]?”

Me: “Yeah?”

Mom: “Can you help me with something?”

Me: “Yeah, what?”

Mom: *grinning* “I need you to put on your costume, go out into the living room, and tell your father, ‘Look, Dad, I’m a pothead.’”

(This seems a little weird to me, but I don’t know if there’s a joke there or what she’s talking about. I trust my mother, so I do what she asks.)

Me: *walks into the living room* “Hey, Dad!”

Dad: *looks up from magazine*

Me: “Look, I’m a pothead!”

Dad: *puts his head in his hands and groans*

Mom: *dying of laughter*

(I didn’t fully understand what my mom had been laughing at or why my dad had been groaning until I was much, much older.)

(My parents and I are eating out at a restaurant with my mom’s best friend. Everyone here is from Louisiana.)

Friend: “I’ve always loved Creole gumbos.”

Dad: *a born and raised Cajun* “So, you’ve never actually had gumbo, then?”

(We’ve just finished watching a movie that had a main cast that was nearly all white. At the end of the movie, the main character says, “We can save the future, but we’ll need help.” They recruit people across the globe. None of the recruits are white.)

Dad: “I guess they don’t want white people in their future, huh?”

Me: *headdesks*

(A young girl around six comes in and buys a chocolate bar. Two minutes later, an angry woman storms up to the counter.)

Customer: *hands me chocolate bar* “I need to return this.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t take returns or exchanges on food products.”

Customer: “Why the h*** not? My daughter just came in here to get some food and you let her buy chocolate? What, you think she’s old enough to make a good decision to buy real food?”

(I continue to explain to her why we don’t accept returns/exchanges on food products. The customer gets progressively louder until my manager comes out.)

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Customer: “This girl won’t let me exchange this! She let my daughter buy this candy bar instead of making her get real food!”

Manager: “Ma’am, maybe next time instead of expecting us to take care of your child you should escort her inside and do so yourself. Have a nice day.”

(The customer left in a huff, mumbling about “ridiculous rules.”)