My parents are dog-sitting my oldest sibling’s dog. He’s fluffy and cute, so I am visiting with my own kids so that they can play with the little floof goblin.

I grew up in a bilingual home, so it’s not unusual for me to hear my parents switch between English and Mandarin at random, but then I notice something that makes it seem less random.

Me: *In English.* “Mum, Dad, why do you speak to the dog in English, but speak about the dog in Mandarin?”

Mum: *In Mandarin.* “Shush! He’ll hear you?”

Me: *In Mandarin.* “Who?”

Mum: *In Mandarin.* “The dog!”

Me: *In English.* “The dog?!”

Mum: *In Mandarin.* “The dog is too fat! But we didn’t want to say that in English, as we didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Me: *In Mandarin.* “You wanted to talk about the dog being fat in Mandarin, because he would understand you in English?”

Mum: *In Mandarin.* “Yes!”

She switches to English and starts talking to the dog.

Mum: *In English.* “Whose a good boy? You are! Yes, you are! You’re such a good boy!”

The dog is wagging his tail and generally living his best life.

Mum: *In Mandarin, to me.* “See? He’s happy because he doesn’t know we’re calling him fat.”

Me: *In English.* “Thanks, mum. Where was this concern for feelings when I was a child, and you called me fat?”

Mum: *In English, fussing over the dog.* “You spoke both languages. Nothing we could do.”

My brother bought one of those ancestry kits. He’s reading the instructions at home while the family is gathered in the living room.

Me: “What if it says we’re adopted?”

Dad: “For one of you, that’d actually be reassuring.”

My teenage son has recently discovered both the gym and protein shakes. He is now obsessed with getting a high volume of protein in his system every day, but he’s also supplementing this with plenty of carbs as fuel for his workouts. Our grocery bill has noticeably gone up. 

One morning, I open the fridge looking for the leftover lasagna I specifically remember saving for lunch. It’s gone.

Me: “Okay, who ate the leftover lasagna?”

My son immediately looks up from his cereal.

Son: “I’m a growing boy!”

Dad: “You’ve consumed enough cheese this month to legally classify as Wisconsin.”

I remember being a young child, going with grandma to the grocery store. At some point, she didn’t get her way, demanded a manager, and when that still didn’t work, she would stomp her foot and yell:

Grandma: “I’m gonna call the attorney general!”

This would happen frequently throughout my childhood, until we moved away, and then only saw grandma on special occasions.

After she died, we were cleaning out her house and found a bunch of letters from the attorney general in response to many complaints she had made. The one in my hand was regarding people parking in disabled parking spaces that “didn’t look or seem disabled to me!”.

We laughed as the letters basically told her, “We are not your private attorney,” and to diplomatically go pound sand.

My teenage daughter comes home after being dropped off outside by some of her friends in their car.

Daughter: “Mom! Dad was out in the garage again! It’s so messy! All my friends saw! It’s embarrassing!”

Me: “I know, but your father says he has a system in there.”

Daughter: “He’s been putting stuff in there since before I was born! We need an intervention!”

Me: “I promised him that as long as he didn’t let it spill into the rest of the house, he could do what he wanted in that space.”

Daughter: “We could get rid of half of it, and he wouldn’t even notice!”

Me: “You think? Okay, when he’s finished in there, let me show you something.”

An hour later, my husband has finished tinkering with whatever it was, and I take my daughter into the garage. I spot a random tray of junk and move it a few inches to the side.

Daughter: “Okay… and?”

Me: “Now we wait.”

A few hours later, my daughter and I are watching TV in the living room, when my husband walks in and asks:

Husband: “Who touched my tray of extension cords?”