Sister: *calling upstairs* “MOM!”
Me: *to sister* “She’s at [Store].”
Sister: *angrily* “Shh! MOM!”
Me: “She’s at [Store].”
Sister: “Shh! MOM!”
Me: *laughing* “She’s at [Store].”
Sister: “Shh! DAD!”
Dad: *calling downstairs* “Yeah?”
Sister: “Where’s mom?”
Dad: “She’s at [Store].”
(My sister never realized what I was saying.)
(Every summer the cousins on my dad’s side have a weekend get together at his mom’s house. Our great-grandpa was known for being hard of hearing and sight. As a kid our uncle was run over by our great-grandpa with a lawn mower. Our uncle survived with less toes than normal. However, our grandma was always extremely protective of us whenever she heard Grandpa start the mower up. I’m 12 and my sister is 10.)
Grandma: “Kids, get inside! Grandpa is mowing!”
(As we collect our toys, my sister asks our 14-year-old cousin why we have to go in. Our cousin gives us the same explanation I just gave. The uncle who was run over is her dad.)
Sister: “Did he die?”
Cousin: “No, [Uncle] is my dad.”
Sister: “I understand, but did he die when Grandpa ran him over?”
Cousin: “He got run over when he was four. I hadn’t even been born yet.”
Sister: “I get that! I just want to know if the mower killed him!”
Cousin: “If he had died, [Cousin #2], [Cousin #3], [Cousin #4], and I wouldn’t have been born! He got hit when he was four! We hadn’t been born! If he had died, I wouldn’t be here!”
Sister: “Yes! But did he die?”
Me: *holding back tears* “NO!”
(Needless to say, our grandma got quite the kick out of hearing this story. It was a great reason for taking longer than we should have to escape Grandpa’s blades of t(o)error.)
My entire family has come from various parts of the county to a family reunion during the holidays. On a Saturday, we headed to a local museum and outdoor park for the day.
About midday, my niece, age six, is playing with our various children while the adults sit and talk. A few minutes later, she proudly comes to us and says that she has gotten the family reunion photo done.
We are confused and try to understand what is going on. We press her for more information, as we are worried that some stranger was taking photos of random six-year-old girls.
However, it turns out that, when she was out of our direct view, another family had been taking a professional family reunion photo and had accidentally included her in it, thinking she was a member of their families.
I have always imagined, somewhere in America, there is a set of grandparents and siblings trying to figure out which of their families this random, not actually related, six-year-old belongs to.
(I have just gotten one of my wisdom teeth removed and am still feeling the effects of the drugs. I’m driving home in the car with my dad, listening to the radio.)
Dad: “This song sounds familiar. Who sings it?”
Me: “Marlon Brando.”
(This conversation repeats a few times, with my dad growing more confused and me growing more upset each time because I know I’m not saying the right thing, but am too drugged to fix it, until I eventually give up. It was Bruno Mars.)
(After enduring a painstakingly slow day working and both being incredibly tired, my mother and I decide to stop by one of our favorite pizza places rather than have to go home and cook. I have a habit of saying the first thing that pops into my head without thinking and, as we’re leaving, this ensues:)
Me: *as I’m stepping through the door, to the cashier* “Thanks for the pizza, dude. I love you!”
Mum: “She’s being sarcastic! She doesn’t really mean—”
Me: “I am not!”
Mum: *lowers voice* “You can’t just tell people you love them.”
Me: “Yes, I can. He gave me pizza!”
Mum: “He didn’t give you pizza. I bought pizza!”
(Just for the record, I had never seen the cashier before in my life.)