Back in the mid-1980s, my mom was very, very pregnant with me. It was a week and a half past the due date, and especially with having to chase my toddler older brother around, she was quite ready for me to be born. She was talking to her grandmother, a prim and proper lady, and brought it up.

Mom: “I hope this baby comes soon! [Brother] had already been born by this point.”

Great-Grandmother: “It must be a girl.”

Mom: “…what?”

Great-Grandmother: “It takes longer to make a buttonhole than a string.”

Mom: “What?!”

Great-Grandmother: “You heard me.”

She then deftly changed the subject. I was finally born fifteen days late, and I am indeed a girl.

I was chatting with the mom of one of my daughter’s friends when she asked how I like my job as a school bus driver, as she was considering applying.

Me: “Oh, I love it. It’s not glamorous, but I’m good at it, it pays well, my boss likes me, and while I’m not friends with everyone at work, I do get along with all of them.”

Friend: “There’s one thing I’m a little nervous about… How often do you have to pee in a cup?”

Me: “I never have. We can use the bathrooms at the schools if we need to. And on longer trips, there are built-in bathroom breaks.”

Friend: “Um, no. I mean… I know marijuana’s legal in Washington, but not federally, so…”

Me: *Face-palming* “I am so lame. Drug testing!”

Friend: *Laughing* “Exactly!”

Me: “Well, I’ve only been pulled once for a random screening after I passed the initial hiring drug test six years ago, but maybe that’s because they know what a square I am.”

I’m at my nanny job, and I’m very pregnant with my daughter. The kids I watch have just gotten out of school, and one has invited a friend over to visit — a boy who’s been over to play before and is generally very polite. He notices that I’m very obviously showing and reaches out his hand.

Boy: “Oh, the baby’s right there, huh? I’m going to feel for a kick!”

Me: “No, you’re not.”

He stops, hand frozen in mid-air inches from touching me.

Boy: “Why not?”

Me: “Because you don’t touch people without permission.”

Boy: “Oh, right. Well, can I?”

Me: “No. I’m not comfortable with that in general, and I’m also pretty sore from round ligament pain. But she does kick a lot, and it’s easy to see even through my clothes. When she starts up, I’ll tell you and you can watch.”

Boy: “That would be cool to see!”

My daughter did indeed start kicking a bit later, and both the boy and the kids I nanny got to see. The boy was happy he got to watch, and hopefully, he learned a little something, too!

I used to work at a toy store where customers could come in, put stuffing in an animal, put clothes on it, and name it.

A couple of years before this story, the company started offering a birthday promotion where parents could bring their young children in, and however old the child was turning would be the price of their animal, e.g., six years old = $6.

Close to the holidays, pre-health crisis, I answered the phone on a busy Saturday. The woman on the other end told me she was pregnant and due very soon, and she wanted to know if she could bring her children in for their birthdays before she wouldn’t be able to. Corporate was very generous with the policy, so I let her know she could, and she said they would be in later.

A few hours after, we had a lull in the crowds. In came a very pregnant woman, her husband, and three rambunctious boys, all under the age of six. I recognized her as the woman I had spoken to and welcomed them in. She told me that her three boys, turning six, four, and three, all had their birthdays within the next two weeks and she was due during that time. Since I had the time — and as a manager, rarely had the opportunity to help with stuffing — I grabbed the animals for her kids and began helping.

I don’t remember the entire stuffing process, but after we had stuffed them and put the hearts in, the boys wanted to pick their clothes while I stitched. I asked for a high-five from each of them. The six-year-old gave me one, and so did the four-year-old. And here comes the reason for this story.

With his two older brothers running away with their dad and their mom sitting down, the three-year-old must have felt like now was his opportunity to get away with something wild. My hand was held up for a high-five from him. In what felt like slow motion, he grabbed my wrist in his hand, pulled it to his face, and LICKED the palm of my hand from wrist to fingertip.

Before I could even react, he ran to his brothers and dad. I looked to see if his mom had seen what happened. She was horrified.

Mom: “Did he just lick you?!”

Working with kids — and customers — I laughed it off and assured her it was fine. Using my slobbery hand as little as possible, I closed up the animals and then ran to scrub my entire arm clean.

Honestly, I would rather this happen than have them cough or sneeze directly in my face. It just happened so fast; I couldn’t help but laugh.

I take my daughter to the doctor for her seven-year-old check-up. A nurse takes her vitals, and while he’s entering them on her chart, my daughter starts to get bored and wiggly. She needs a distraction. She’s wearing knee socks with pandas on them, as well as a shirt and a hat with pandas. You get three guesses about what her favorite animal is, and the first two don’t count.

Me: “Can you count how many pandas are on one of your socks?”

She twists her leg around to get an accurate count.

Daughter: “One, two…” *a bit later* “…sixteen, seventeen!

Me: “So many pandas are on both socks? What’s seventeen plus seventeen?”

We have a bit of back and forth as she figures out that she needs to carry the one, finally resulting in the correct answer of thirty-four rather than her initial answer of twenty-four.

Me: “Now add the ones on your shirt and hat.”

Daughter: “Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven!”

Me: “Wow, thirty-seven! pandas!”

She then looks at me, very serious, and speaks in somber tones.

Daughter: “But Mom. There are more. There are millions of pandas in my heart.”