I have an eight-and-a-bit-month-old child, and I’ve been having some pain during sex, so I book in to see my OB-GYN.

The appointment is really straightforward and I’m told to go get a cream. I also have a birth control rod inserted whilst I’m there. I wander over to the pharmacy and hand over my script. I’m not asked for my Medicare card, but I’m asked if I have concession.

I reply no, with no more thought into the answer. I wait and collect my script and note that I’ve been charged a concession price. Not thinking too much into it, and thinking that I must have one linked to my Medicare card, I pay the $12.80 instead of $50 to $80 for my items and head back across the road.

I get the rod implanted and continue about my day, a bit perplexed how I got charged concession. It’s not until later that night when I’m reading the script again that I realise they’ve put it under the wrong name. I’m a Mrs. [My Name], and they put it under a Mr. [Same Name].

I burst out laughing that they have given a man vaginal cream and contraception, at an OB-GYN.

(I’m working a weekend shift at the hospital. It’s early and I need a coffee, but I’m pregnant so I opt for decaf.)

Me: “Can I have a small decaf?”

Barista: “Cappuccino? Latte?”

Me: “Latte.”

(Pause.)

Me: “Wait! No! Flat white! Flat white, sorry. Flat white. Sorry.”

Barista: “Are you sure you want decaf?”

(When I was little, I didn’t have that many toys. I always envied my friends when I went in their rooms and saw beds covered in plushies and teddy bears. I am at my mum’s friend’s house. They have two kids and a room FULL of toys. It is like heaven to six-year-old me.)

Me: “[Mum’s Friend], can I please play with the toys?”

(My mum shoots me the “don’t embarrass me” glare I have learned to recognise. I ignore it and put on my best puppy face.)

Mum’s Friend: “Of course you can! Go have fun.”

(I gleefully go play with the myriad of toys. I am being a bit rambunctious, and I can hear my mum grumbling her disapproval and her friend loudly brushing her off: “Oh, let her have some fun!” That is all the encouragement I need. After about half an hour, I spot the jackpot: a little red toy car — the kind big enough for kids to get in and ride — partially covered under a desk. Again, I scurry over to my mum’s friend:)

Me: “There’s a red car under the table in that room. Is it okay if I drive it a bit?”

Mum: “No. You need to sit down and behave.”

Mum’s Friend: “Oh, there’s no need to be so harsh, [Mum]. You only get to be a kid once! Of course you can play in the car, honey. Have fun!”

Mum: “No. She’s had enough fun. Other kids can sit quietly when their parents take them out; so can she. She’s being disrespectful to you in your house.”

Mum’s Friend: “Oh, stop it, [Mum]. I don’t mind her at all. It’s fine, sweetie. You can go play in the toy car.”

(I look between my angry mum and her smiling friend as they go back and forth a little more. Then my mum says this to me:)

Mum: “[My Name], if you go play on that toy car, you’re going to get a beating when you get home.”

(Perhaps contrary to her intentions, this ultimatum made it much easier for me to decide what to do. I could drive the little toy car and get a beating, or I could forego what might be my only opportunity ever to drive a little toy car — I was only going to get bigger as I got older, after all — and there was no guarantee I wouldn’t get a beating in the future, anyway, for other offenses. With this sound logic, it was not a difficult choice. I rode that little toy car around the house to my heart’s content, careful not to crash into anything. I did get a beating when I got home, and it was 100% worth it.)

(This story takes place when I am in grade five, and we are receiving our school reports. I am normally a straight-A student. My teacher sits the class down and explains to us that the school has changed their grading system this year. The teacher explains that in the new grading system, students cannot receive an A in their mid-year report. It is impossible to get anything higher than a C, because the new grade reflects what work has been achieved; as half of the assignments are due in the second half of the year, we can only get an A at the end-of-year report. I have no idea why they chose to tell us, the kids, rather than send out a letter or something to the parents. As I am only in grade five, I don’t fully understand the reasoning behind the new grading system — I still don’t, as an adult. Nevertheless, I trot home with my report. Later that evening, my mum sees my report and completely loses it.)

Mum: “What is this?!”

(I look over and see that I have mostly Cs, and some Ds.)

Me: “Oh, yeah. The teacher explained about this. She says we can’t get As because of the new report.”

Mum: “You’re lying. You haven’t been studying hard enough; that’s why you got all these Cs and Ds.”

Me: “It’s true! It’s because we haven’t done the second half of the year… or something… so we can only get As at the end of the year! That’s what she said!”

(This only angers my mum further, because she’s convinced I’m lying about it. I have always been an honest kid, but like I said, I don’t fully understand the teacher’s explanation, and I can’t explain it properly to my mum. She keeps yelling at me until I start crying. She then makes me get out my diary and write about what happened today. I’m still crying as I write, “Today, I got Cs and Ds in my report and I don’t know why.”)

Mum: *looking over my shoulder* “You liar. You know why you got Cs and Ds. You can’t even be honest to your diary.”

(Soon after, my dad came home and was greeted with this commotion: me sobbing, the report strewn all over the table, and my mum still furious with me. He listened to me as I tried to explain what the teacher said. He then said to my mum that we should probably ask the teacher to clarify, if only to double-check if what I was saying was true. My mum was sceptical, but finally agreed. I don’t know how they were able to see the teacher that late in the day — it may have been parent-teacher interviews that night; I can’t remember — but they left and came home a couple of hours later. My dad gently explained to still-miserable, nine-year-old me that I was right. The report system had changed, so according to the new system, I should be really proud of my grades. My mum was in a cheerful mood, because it turned out I did well, after all. She had the grace to look a bit sheepish, but I don’t remember ever getting an apology for her accusations.)

(We run a business that supplies weapons, clothing, and armour for Live Action Role Play [LARP] and re-enactment. We often set up and sell directly to customers at games, as well as participating in the combat ourselves.)

Me: “So, you want the full set of plate armour? That’ll be [price].”

Customer: “Great. I can’t wait!”

Me: “Do you have a gambeson?”

Customer: “What’s that?”

Me: “It’s a type of padded jacket you need to wear underneath most armours. It’s great for protecting your real-world squishy meat sack from the physical force of the blows, and—”

Customer: “Nah, it’s fine. They’re just toy swords. How much damage can they do?”

Me: “Again, it’s full, steel-plate armour, and without a gambeson to pad it, a lot of the force on it is transferred straight to your body. I suppose if you have, like, a puffy winter jacket—”

Customer: “Listen. Stop trying to upsell me, all right?! I’ve been doing this stuff for years! Just… the d***… armour.”

Me: “All right. It’s your call, mate.”

(I processed the sale, and then assisted him into the armour, as it’s very difficult to achieve alone, and the customer had no friends to help. An hour after that, full combat started, and I could see this guy running down the field at full tilt. A minute later, a Code Red was called for a serious injury that required the medical officer. The customer had fallen over and cracked a rib inside his own armour, because there was no padding.)