(My daughter is walking about cuddling her kitten, appropriately named Nemesis.)

Daughter: “Mom, why does Nemesis love me?”

(Before I can answer, her 12-year-old brother interjects dryly:)

Son: “Stockholm Syndrome.”

(When I am about five years old, my mother makes Jello for dessert. I think I can get away with sneaking some before dinner. It is rather obvious when it comes time to serve it.)

Dad: “Okay, who got into the Jello?”

(My brothers and I remain silent until the threat of not having any comes up.)

Me: “I did.”

Dad: “You’ve got a choice: you can watch us eat ours and not have any, or you can have some and then get punished.”

Me: *without hesitation* “I’ll have some of the Jello.”

(Thirty years later, Dad still brings it up.)

It was summer and we were loading up to go to Disneyland. My son was six years old and was very excited to see Mickey Mouse.

En route, we found a mall to stop for a bathroom and a chance to stretch our legs.

There was a little play area in the mall with the kiddie rides where you put in a quarter and it bounces you around for thirty seconds. We decided to let the kid have fun because we’d been sitting for a while and he probably needed to blow off some steam.

About ten minutes later, he came up, hugged us both and said, “Thanks for taking me to Disneyland. It was fun even though I didn’t get to meet Mickey Mouse.”

It was very tempting to turn around and save several hundred dollars by pretending the play area was Disneyland, but we continued on our way.

He was even more impressed with the real Disneyland.

And yes, he did meet Mickey Mouse.

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(My two two-year-olds are getting ready for bed. [Toddler #2] is in the bedroom with my husband, while [Toddler #1] is running down the hall to the bedroom. [Toddler #2] runs to the door and closes it just before her sister gets to it, effectively locking her out of the bedroom.)

Toddler #1: *knocking on the door* “Papa! Papa, let me in!”

Toddler #2: “Papa can’t help you now! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Many years after the fact, my husband related to me and his parents a story of his first and only encounter with law enforcement.

When he was fourteen, he did one of those stupid things under peer pressure that was considered a badge of honor back then: driving a motorbike without a license, or indeed without being the appropriate age to get one. Of course, he was stopped and taken to the police station. As a minor, his parents were to be called, but there was an unofficial, alternative punishment: a couple of whacks across the buttock of the child in question. Different times, back then. It was not legal, of course, but deemed appropriate.

Given the choice, my husband without hesitation chose the alternative. The friendly police sergeant opened a drawer and gave him a choice of the tool. There was a colorful collection of batons of various materials, from wooden, to rubber, to plastic. My husband chose the least impressive, small one. The policeman said okay, grabbed the stick… and expanded it to working length. Yes, it was the first model of telescopic baton in use, and according to my husband, it stung.

Still, my husband maintains, that it was much better than what his father would have done to him, had he known about his ride without a license.

“You bet I would,” said my father-in-law, when my husband finished. “In fact, I still should!” and jokingly undid his belt.