I see a dad putting his son, who looks to be about two or three, in a high chair at a restaurant. The kid isn’t having it and gives his dad an exasperated look.

Kid: “Am I a baby? Am. I. A. BABY?”

Confession time: I made my daughter cry at Christmas a few years ago.

She was in the habit of very carefully, slowly opening gift wrap without ripping for later reuse and I’d always tell her to hurry and just rip it. One Christmas, as a joke, I wrapped a gift to her by ripping gift wrap into pieces about the size of quarters, then taping the pieces together around the gift box. I thought it looked cool: pieces of different themed gift wrap with the ripped, rough edges sticking out all around the box, kind of “fuzzy” and no need to avoid tearing wrapping that’s already torn up.

But she thought I was making fun of her; when she saw it, her head dropped and she cried slightly.

I apologized, but I’ve felt guilty for four years now. It’s hard being a parent; sometimes you go for a laugh but things don’t work right and then someone is hurt.

Two young boys are sitting behind me on a flight to San Francisco. As we land, [Boy #1] says: 

Boy #1: “Hey, I recognize this place!”

Boy #2: “[Boy #1], you live here.”

My teenage son and I each have a holiday tin of popcorn, and I’m eating from mine.

Son: “Can I have some of your popcorn?”

Me: “No! We started with the same amount, and I’ve saved mine to enjoy longer while you already ate all of yours!”

Then, my son speaks in the voice of a beleaguered Victorian child.

Son: “But Mother, what of the spirit of Chismonukkah?!”

Of course, he got some of my popcorn after I stopped laughing.

My kids are ten and six, and they love “helping” my husband in the kitchen. Recently, I overheard him telling them:

Husband: “New house rule: if you want to bake with Daddy, you have to be wearing pants!”

Five minutes later: 

Husband: “Your own pants. Right-side up. On your legs.”

It’s been a long lockdown.