(My two-year-old’s hair has gotten a bit long, so I decide to trim it. I have him sitting on my lap, and just as I start to trim his hair, my phone goes off. It’s a Skype call, and he knows that my phone only makes that particular sound when his dad is calling, so he excitedly bounces right as I close the scissors. I sigh as I answer the video call and give my son the phone.)

Son: “Dada! Hi!”

Husband: “Hey there, son!”

(My son starts jabbering away at my husband, then suddenly he reaches up and grabs the back of his head and his eyes go wide.)

Son: *patting the back of his head* “Oh, gosh! Oh, gosh!”

Husband: *to me* “What’s wrong? Why’s he grabbing his head like that?”

Me: “Well, he moved right as I went to trim his hair, and I wound up cutting it way shorter than I meant to. He just realized how much hair I chopped off back there.”

Husband: *laughs* “Did she gap your hair, buddy?”

Son: *nods* “Yeah!” *pats back of his head again then looks at me* “Gosh!”

Me: *rolls eyes* “Well, sir, when you finish your conversation with Dada, I will get the clippers out and cut your hair so that it’s all short.”

(My son sits quietly a moment as if he’s contemplating what I’ve said, then nods.)

Son: “You do it.”

Husband: *laughs* “I wonder how well that’s going to go over?”

(For the rest of the twenty minute call, he occasionally reached up to touch the back of his head and say, “Oh, gosh!” When we had finished the call, my son sat completely still for most of his hair cut. The only time he moved was to occasionally wipe the hair off his face and the back of his neck before I could do it. I am so glad he didn’t cry or throw a fit like some children his age do.)

We have one of those things that you step on and it tells you what type of insole you need for your shoes — high-arch, pronate… whatever. But for it to work properly, you have to stand on it with your bare feet.

We had some kids wanting to try it, but upon seeing that you had to have bare feet, their mother yelled at them, “No, don’t go on that! You’ll get foot-AIDS!”

(My wife and I are watching a political drama/thriller on TV when our college-age daughter walks into the room and sits down.)

Daughter: “What are you guys watching? What’s going on here?”

Me: “Okay, so, this soldier here has just seen his buddy shot in the head, and now…[explains the plot of the film thus far].”

Daughter: “Oh… No. That seems a bit much for me, on a Thursday evening and everything. I can’t deal with that.”

(She gets out her phone and starts reading something whilst we continue watching the film.)

Me: “What is it you’re reading, anyway?”

Daughter: “Oh, I was just reading up on the Zodiac Killer.”

(When I am around seven years old, there is a string of drunk-driving incidents in my hometown, mostly related to underage drivers. It is all over the local news for several weeks, and it really upsets my mom. Because I often carpool with a friend to school, with her older sibling driving us, she sits me down and has a long talk with me about not riding in cars with people who have been drinking, to call her or my dad if I don’t feel safe riding with someone, etc. Unfortunately, she neglects to clarify for seven-year-old me exactly what beverages constitute “drinking and driving,” because we have this gem of a conversation about a week later:)

Me: *running into her room* “Mommy!”

Mom: “Yes, sweetie?”

Me: “You know how Daddy drove me to gymnastics today?”

Mom: “Yes?”

Me: “Well… um… Is wine a ‘drink’?”

Mom: *stunned silence* “[My Name], are you saying your father was drinking wine in the car?”

Me: “Yeah! It said it on the can!”

Mom: *jumping up and grabbing the phone off the hook* “I can’t believe he… Wait, what can?”

Me: “It said it in big letters, ‘CHEERWINE’!” *a form of cherry soda*

Mom: *slams the phone down* “Oh! Oh, thank God!”

(We then had different talk about drinks that are okay to have in the car. My dad thought it was hilarious and still likes to tell people that story nearly 30 years later.)

(Growing up, I was the kid in my family who tended to have the worst sense of humour. I was certainly a stick in the mud at school, and even at home I wasn’t very good at taking a joke. Still, my family was very close, especially after my grandparents moved to the same town as us. One day, we are visiting a nearby village and pop into a tourist store. God knows why, but they have these little rubber eggs on sale; they’re not round enough to bounce properly, just rubber eggs used for… I’ve no clue. However, having a quid burning a hole in my pocket convinces 14-year-old me that this particular trinket is worth having. That afternoon we head to my grandparents’ house for lunch. I pop into the kitchen and open the fridge, and I spot that the egg tray is just one short of being full. Looking around to make sure nobody is watching me, I grab the rubber egg out of my pocket and put it in the tray. Afterward, I pretty much forget about the whole thing… until a week later, when I am back at home.)

Mum: “Hey, [My Name]?”

Me: “Yes?”

Mum: “Didn’t you buy a rubber egg at that shop in [Village]?”

Me: “Oh, umm, yeah. I did. Why?”

Mum: “What did you do with it?”

(I told her about what I’d done, and she burst out laughing. It turns out, my gran tried to crack the egg, only to find that she couldn’t. Rather than realising she’d been pranked with a rubber egg, she instead took it down to her local supermarket and asked for a refund!  The employees were staring at her like she had two heads, before two of them took the egg and started playing catch. My gran still had no idea what was going on, but the chuckling manager happily gave her a free box of new ones. The next time I saw her I let her know what had happened and she spent the day with a huge grin. Apparently, what had really shocked her and my mum is that I’d managed to not tell anybody about the prank until it paid off! My gran still mentions it whenever she goes to that supermarket.)