Our family was driving to Chicago on a flat, largely empty interstate in northern Illinois. Our two children were then about 6 and 8. Our son noticed the posted speed limit and said: “Dad, the limit is 55, and you’re going 65. You ought to slow down.”
Then we heard the wailing siren and saw flashing blue lights behind us. My husband pulled over and lowered the window, and the officer leaned down.
“Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”
“No. Sorry, officer, I guess I wasn’t paying attention,” he started to reply.
“Yes, you did, Dad!” came from the back seat. “We told you!”
The end result: a warning ticket and a story that trooper probably enjoyed repeating.
About halfway home from my daughter’s school one day, my car broke down. Not being able reach anyone, I decided to take the bus. I asked the driver about the fare and calculated I had enough money for myself but not my 6-year-old daughter. The driver said that children must be 5 or under to ride free, then asked, “How old is your child?” I replied, “Five.” My daughter then loudly exclaimed, “No, Mommy, I am 6 years old!” The passengers roared with laughter, and one kind gentleman in the front row paid her fare.
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