(My mother had a surgery, and I’m taking her home from the hospital. She can walk, but is still kind of loopy because of the painkillers.)

Me: “All right, we’re home. Do you need help getting out of the car?”

Mom: “Baby… my little ladybug…”

Me: “Aye?”

Mom: “Turn on the Christmas lights, please.”

Me: “Right now? It’s noon.”

Mom: “I want to watch!”

Me: “Okay.”

(She then stayed inside the car with the windows down for half an hour, staring at the outdoor Christmas lights. At least she had a good time.)

(I work in the creche at a family camp during the summer. We have a strict “no photo” rule as part of our safeguarding policy. The day before the creche opens, parents come to register their children.)

Me: “Hello! Welcome to the creche. Have you filled in the registration form?”

Mother: “Yes. It’s really important that nobody takes any photos of [Child], because he’s adopted.”

Me: “That’s fine; we never take photos in the creche.”

Mother: “I don’t just mean that the photos can’t go online; even for internal stuff, he can’t have his photo displayed.”

Me: “I understand. We won’t take any photos.”

Mother: “Even if he’s in the background, you’ve got to delete the photo. Can you make sure all of the staff know?”

Me: “Yes, nobody will take any photos. We never take photos in the creche; it’s part of our safeguarding policy.”

Mother: “Because it’s really important that we keep [Child] safe.”

Me: “Yes, I understand. Now, does [Child] have any medical issues or allergies we need to be aware of?”

Mother: “He’s adopted.”

Me: “Yes…”

Mother: “So it’s really important that he’s not in any photos.”

Me: “If you go to the next desk, my colleague will give you an ID card so that only people you’ve authorised can pick [Child] up.”

Mother: “It could be really dangerous if any photos of [Child] were published.”

(I’m the stupid one in this story. I’m on vacation, and my wife and kids are looking in a bookstore while I run off to an ATM. When I come back, I see my daughter, age seven, looking through a cardboard box of comic books. Immediately my attention is focused completely on the book she’s about to open; it’s very racy and not appropriate for a seven-year-old.)

Me: “You know what? That one’s not really for kids. Let’s look for a different one.”

(I take the comic and put it back into the box before she can open it. Suddenly my wife appears at the end of the aisle, having overheard, and looks at me, horrified.)

Wife: “[My Name]! Why are you reprimanding someone else’s child?”

(I had been so focused on the comic book that I didn’t even see that the girl holding it — though she was the same height as my daughter — was not my daughter at all! That’s when I turned around and saw the girl’s actual father, to whom I apologized profusely. He must have been confused when a stranger entered the store and started criticizing his daughter’s choice of comic books!)

(We recently partnered with a local shelter to help get their animals adopted, by showcasing a few within our store. We generally don’t allow people to remove the animals from their cages for a day or so after they arrive, as they are usually stressed and we don’t want anyone to get hurt. As I’m putting our new shelter friends in their cages, one of the rabbits tries to bite, kick, and scratch me. I notify management, who tells me to just leave the rabbit in its cage and tell people not to touch it. To me, it would make sense to allow the poor creature to decompress off the sales floor for a few days, but I don’t make the rules. I print a sign that says, “I NEED SPACE. PLEASE KEEP YOUR FINGERS OUT OF MY CAGE. THANK YOU!” and hang it on the front of the cage. About an hour later, I’m helping a customer with an aquarium when I see a small boy with his father, looking at the rabbit. The father sticks his finger in the cage and pokes the rabbit’s backside. The rabbit jumps away from the father and the boy laughs.)

Me: “Uh, hey, guys. I’m sorry. That rabbit hasn’t quite adjusted to life in the store yet. We don’t want people trying to pet him.”

Father: “We’re not petting him.”

Me: “Then… what are you doing?”

Father: *matter-of-factly* “I’m touching him.”

Me: *inner sigh* “Please leave him alone. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Father: “You always tell people what to do?”

Me: “I do when they might get bitten.”

Father: “Mind your own business before I call corporate.”

(The son sticks his tongue out at me and they walk away. I return to the man I was originally talking to.)

Me: “I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want that boy to get bitten.”

Customer: “It’s okay. You’re just looking out for your customers.”

Me: “Thank you for understanding.”

Customer: *laughs* “Ten dollars says one of them gets bitten later.”

Me: “Oh, no. I wouldn’t take that bet.”

(The man decides on an aquarium, and I help him load it on a flatbed to be loaded in his truck. While I’m on the register, the father from earlier comes storming up to me.)

Father: “You’re in a world of trouble, missy!”

Me: “Uh… Ex-excuse me?”

Father: “Your f****** rabbit just bit my son!”

Me: *deep breath, apologetic customer service tone* “Would you like to file an incident report? I can call a manager and get a first aid kit for your son.”

Father: “You’re d*** right, I do! And I’ll be suing the store and you!”

Customer: “Good luck with that.”

Father: “What did you say?”

Customer: “I said good luck. You were told not to mess with the rabbit, by her and the sign on the cage.”

Father: “It’s her job to read, not mine!” *storms off*

Me: “I told you so.”

Customer: “Ah, I wish you’d taken that bet.”

(The father did file an incident report and called corporate, claiming I told him it was perfectly fine to hold the rabbit and that I’d left them unattended. Our store doesn’t have cameras, so I could have been in serious trouble. Luckily, the customer I worked with also called corporate and gave them a heads up, complete with a photo of the rabbit and the sign, just in case. The boy was fine, mostly just scared, and since the rabbit didn’t break the skin, he didn’t have any medical bills.)

(I call my mom in Virginia because I am sick and that is what moms are for. It’s just a cold, but it’s a miserable one with fever and inflamed sinuses and so much fluid from every hole in my face that I’m a giant, drippy, sore-throat mess.)

Mom: “You should gargle some hot salt water, or I like to get a little cup with equal parts vinegar and honey and drink that. If you can drink it straight, it’s better for your throat than diluting it with water.”

Dad: “Or you could just eat a bag of salt and vinegar chips.”

Me: *thoughtful pause* “I’m going to go get a bag of salt and vinegar chips. For medicinal use.”

(I could practically hear my mom’s eyes rolling through the phone.)