A customer’s young son, maybe age three or so, is standing in the shopping trolley dancing and jumping around.

Mother: “If you don’t sit down, you will fall out. You will fall out and crack your head open when you hit the ground, and your brains will fall out, and you will need to go to the hospital and go to intensive care, and I will not take you!”

Little Boy: “Okay!”

He kept jumping around.

We are eating dinner. My two-and-a-half-year-old has just eaten a bite that was a bit too hot.

Me: “Drink some water; that will make you feel better.”

Daughter: *Crying* “[Mumbled] will feel me better.”

Me: “What will make you feel better?”

Daughter: *Still crying* “Dessert!”

I work in an assisted living facility. Due to the health crisis, we’ve had to stop visits to the elderly. After some work, we created a space where people could see their families through a glass, similar to those in ticket booths. In order to visit the elderly through there, families need to make an appointment.

Today, I got a call from a man wanting to visit his mum on the weekend. I told him everything was booked. He said, in a very aggravated tone, that he hadn’t seen his mum in two months. I said I understood, and he immediately cut me off, saying I didn’t understand a thing, that it was a simple request, and that I should be able to do something so basic.

After a bit of back and forth, I told him he could either book for the weekend after or see his mum through one of the gates this weekend. He said he was no dog to be left out on the street.

I couldn’t help but think, “If you wanted to see your mum so bad, wouldn’t you take what you could get?”

After being called incompetent for the seventh time, I couldn’t take it anymore and told him, “Well, sir, since you insist on coming this weekend but refuse to see your mother through the gates, unless you drop from a parachute onto the roof in order to see her, I can’t help you.”

He said, in a very high and mighty tone, that he was going to call my boss and tell him my answers. I called my boss to warn him about the headache heading his way and he laughed at the parachute comment.

It turns out that the guy is known for being impossible to talk to.

What do you call a male Karen? A Gareth? A Kevin? Either way, I had one of those. And I’m not looking forward to completing the set.

A father and his daughter — maybe twelve years old — come up to the reference desk. To call the child surly is an understatement. She clearly wants to be anywhere but here. The father is prompting his little angel.

Father: “Go on. Tell the librarian about what you need.”

He then turns to me.

Father: “Maybe you will understand.”

Daughter: “I need a book on Moes.”

That is exactly how she pronounces it, like “Moles” but without the L.

Me: “Okay. Can you tell me a little more? I am not quite certain what we are talking about.”

Father: “You and me both.”

Daughter: “MOES.”

Me: “What class is this for?”

Daughter: “School.”

Me: “Yes, but what class?”

Daughter: “For a report on MOES.”

The father shakes his head and looks heavenward.

Me: “Okay, let’s try again. Science? History? English?”

Daughter: “I doin’ a report on MOES.”

Father: “Okay, I am going to ask again. What the heck are we talking about?”

Daughter: “I tol’ you. MOES.”

Me: “Is it for science? Are we talking about mold? Like how it’s used for penicillin?”

Daughter: “I ain’t doing nothing with penicillin.”

Father: “WHICH. CLASS. IS. THIS. FOR?”

The daughter gives a heavy sigh as if she is giving up state secrets.

Daughter: “Moes. Like what grow in the back yard!”

Father: “You mean moles? Like the animal?”

She stomps her foot and screams “MOES” again. But she finally says, in a completely different voice:

Daughter: “It’s for science class.”

I get inspired because there have been a lot of kids through looking for material on plants and trees.

Me: “Is this for Mr. [Science Teacher]’s class?”

The daughter now has her lower lip stuck out.

Daughter: “Yeah.”

Me: “Are we talking about the thick green stuff that grows on the side of trees and around the roots?”

She looks peeved that I figured it out.

Daughter: “Yeah.”

Her father invokes the Lord’s name and adds:

Father: “It’s called MOSS. MOSS.”

I find some appropriate information and send an assistant off to get the books.

Father: *Shaking his head* “Thank you! As God is my witness, she speaks perfectly good English, but since she got in with this bunch of new friends, she’s decided on this whole new gig.”

He turns to his daughter.

Father: “YOU may think you sound all down with the struggle, but what you sound like is a fool. We’re going to have a talk about speaking so you can be understood when we get home.”

I so wanted to slap a gold star on that weary-eyed man’s chest.

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If you’ve ever had a customer like this one who has no idea what they want, then the NAR community would love to read it! Submit your story and vent those frustrations!

Lately, my six-year-old daughter has been rather obsessed with the idea of fighting bad guys. Maybe I’ve been letting her watch too many shows about kid superheroes. Who knows?

One day, I collect her from afternoon care and see that she’s made a paper mask and is carrying a couple of sticks she picked up. When I ask her about them, she explains:

Daughter: “This is my superhero mask, and this stick is for threatening people so they go away. But if they don’t go away, I have this other one so I can stab them in the heart so they die.”

Me: “Wow, that sounds pretty violent.”

Daughter: “Yes, that’s why I made this creepy mask. It’s to scare them away, because I don’t want to have to be a murderer. Because then I would have to go to kid jail, and then I could never go to a sleepover again.”

I’m honestly not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. I can’t fault her logic, at least! And for the record, no, she has never tried to stab anyone in real life.