Our British family is visiting the USA for the first time. Mum, Dad, my two siblings and I enter the lift from a high floor in a very tall hotel, and make our way down. We keep stopping, and more people get on every few floors.

Every time a new person boards, Dad can’t help but convey a ‘dad joke’ to his growing captive audience.

Dad: “Did you know that in England it’s called a lift, but in America it’s called an elevator? I guess people are just raised differently.”

Cue his entire family (myself included) groaning, and the strangers smirking slightly.

Dad: “Personally, I’ve never cared for elevators. In fact, I usually take steps to avoid them.”

Brother: “Okay, Dad, you can stop now.”

Dad: “That being said, I don’t trust stairs either. They’re always up to something.”

Sister: “Help.”

Me: “How many more floors to go?”

Mum: “Thirty-five.”

Me: *Squeaks.*

Suddenly, one of the other hotel guests, who is a complete stranger to us, turns and says to my dad in an American accent:

Stranger: “Conversely, I love elevators. I get to know people on a lot of different levels.”

Brother: “Oh no… It’s spreading.”

Sister: “Let me out! I don’t wanna catch it!”

We couldn’t all spread out into the lobby fast enough. Dad and his new friend swapped socials, and they were drinking beers in the hotel bar together that night, sparing the rest of us…

I was standing in line at a major supermarket. Directly ahead of me was a woman with a little girl who looked about four. In front of them was a young mother with a boy of about three.

The boy pointed toward the display of sweets (candies).

Boy: “Can I have a chocolate bar?”

Mother: “No.”

A few moments later:

Boy: “Can I have a chocolate bar?”

Mother: “No.”

The boy promptly threw himself onto the floor and began screaming and crying.

Boy: “You’re a stupid-head!”

His mother calmly leaned over and whispered something to the woman behind her. The two mothers smiled while the boy continued his full-scale tantrum. Then, his mother took a chocolate bar from the shelf and placed it in her cart, and the boy immediately stopped crying.

The mother paid for her shopping, then turned around and handed the chocolate bar to the well-behaved little girl behind them. She looked directly at her son.

Mother: “Children who behave are rewarded, and children who throw tantrums and embarrass their mothers get nothing.”

She turned on her heel and walked away. The boy followed in stunned silence, with his jaw practically on the floor.

My dad grew up on an old farm built into the side of a valley. The surrounding fields are rented to a neighbouring farm, but during winter, they become one enormous two-hundred-metre-long hill.

One snowy day, Dad and I build a ski jump at the bottom of it.

Dad: “I have some work to do inside. Be careful while I’m gone.”

Me: “I will.”

Naturally, I decide that the first test jump should involve riding my sled from the very top of the hill.

Partway down, I worry that I am not going fast enough, so I start paddling against the snow with my foot.

Mom is washing dishes in the kitchen, which gives her a perfect view of the jump.

Mom: “Oh, no.”

She watches me hit the ramp, fly high into the air, and disappear from view.

Mom: “GO GET HIM!”

I face-plant into the snow and lose consciousness. Dad runs outside, wakes me up, and checks that I haven’t suffered a concussion or any other serious injury.

Dad: “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dad: “Are you dizzy? Does your head hurt?”

Me: “Dad, get the tape measure.”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “We need to know how far I went!”

The jump measures 18.4 metres, and I estimate that I was airborne for four to six seconds.

It remains both my greatest achievement and the strongest evidence that Dad may have checked the wrong end of me for brain damage.

When I was about six, my cousin told me that if you take a plug and insert it only halfway into a receptacle and THEN take a pocketknife and touch it to it, that it would make sparks. When you’re six, sparks are really awesome, so… the next day at home, I decided to give this great idea a try.

I touched the knife to the prongs and… nothing. So, I went with a kind of ‘sawing’ motion on the prongs and WHOA… There was a flash and a bang. The wall was black three feet up, and the wallpaper was burnt. The knife blade had been melted by both of the prongs over halfway through the blade.

It didn’t hurt me a bit. The pocketknife had a wooden handle, so that was the only way it didn’t kill me.

My dad comes rushing into the room (loud bang, remember?) and I go running over to him, crying, expecting an a** whooping.

When he saw what I had done and that I was okay, he was so relieved, but said:

Dad: “God said that you don’t die today, so I will respect his wishes. But if you try anything that stupid ever again, I’m gonna kill ya!”

I was obviously grounded, which, now that I think back on it, might be a clever pun.

I never did anything like that again. Whenever I tell my dad I’m going anywhere or doing anything adventurous, he always reminds me not to do anything stupid and get myself killed… or he’ll kill me.

I received a Nintendo 64 for Christmas just before I turned 11. It was brand new and the latest thing. It came with one game, Super Mario 64. By late spring, I had already completed the entire game more than once. All the stars, all the secrets; there was no game left to discover.

I had been going back to playing my older consoles when I played games, but I had nothing new, and I still had over half a year before my next birthday and Christmas. The cost of a game would take a huge chunk of my $3 every two weeks allowance I earned doing chores.

So, I figure, it never hurts to ask.

Me: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yes, Honey?”

Me: “My Nintendo 64 only came with one game, and I’ve played it all the way through and done everything in it more than once. There’s nothing new to do in it. It’s a long time until Christmas and January. So, I was wondering, could I please have one new game now? You can count it as one of this year’s Christmas presents.”

Mom: “Hmm, that makes sense. Sure, you can have a game. Something new to play over the summer. And don’t worry, I won’t get you fewer Christmas presents this year.”

Me: “Really? Thanks, Mom!” *I hug her.*

Mom: “What game would you like?”

Me: “Star Wars: Shadows of the Empire.”

Sure enough, when she goes out with her friend for lunch, they stop on the way home and pick up the exact game I wanted. I had a new game to enjoy without waiting for another holiday.

A few years later, my family is talking, and the topic of my video game collection comes up.

Me: “I remember the end of fifth grade. I only had one game for my Nintendo 64 and had played it to death. I asked Mom if I could have a new game, so I had something new to play over the summer, and she was nice enough to buy ‘Shadows of the Empire’ for me.”

Mom: *Furrowing her brow.* “What are you talking about? When did I ever buy you a game in the summer?”

Me: “June 1997. You went out with [Friend] and came back with a game I asked for because I had nothing new to play.”

Mom: *Getting angry.* “Oh my god, you’re making things up! I’d never just buy a video game for no reason.”

Me: *Surprised that sharing a nice memory has started a conflict.* “Uh, yeah, you bought me a game because I had nothing new to play until Christmas.”

Mom: “You’re so full of crap! There’s no way I’d ever be stupid enough to let you trick me into buying you a video game!”

My family moved on to something else, and my mom remained in a sour mood for a while. I know my mom doesn’t care about video games any more than considering them something her son likes, but I don’t know why it seemed unthinkable that she might have done something nice for me by purchasing me an extra game once.