One For My Husband

Here’s what you need to know. 

1. When I say something I write is “FOR” someone, it does not mean it’s about them.  It generally denotes that I’ve got a story or two about them in whatever it is I’m writing and I want them to take note, look back, and maybe have a laugh.
    
2. My husband is a righteous dude.  Not in the ways that Noah was considered righteous in the Bible.  More like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction righteous.  Or maybe Ferris Bueller.  Either/or he’s solid. 
   

I can’t stand it when someone who doesn’t know shit from shinola decides to get all up in my face about something they know nothing about.  When this happens, I always do one thing in particular and then I decide which course of action I’m going to take. 

First, I think about “Am I right?” or “Did I do that?” depending on the situation.  Once I determine if I am, in fact, right I move on to “do I address it?” The answer isn’t always black and white.  Addressing it means I know what it’ll take to make it better or fix the situation and sometimes there is nothing that will do either, so why bother?  But when I do address it, you know it’ll be magical. 

Scenario #1 is work related.

I asked someone to complete a task and copied their superior on the email because this is the third time I asked for this particular thing to be completed. 

In response, this person laid into me about how “It says in the email that I have 30 days to complete it.  You should be clearer about your expectations.”

Now this sits wrong with me for a variety of reasons, but I must go through them in my head to make sure I can 100% support why this person is ridiculous.  Then, I look through emails to find dates and exact phrasing. 

A situation like this always calls for diplomacy because this is my job here and I am known for 2 things – getting my shit done in an amazing way and somehow remaining likeable by people who try to hinder me.  Plus, I’m a professional, damn it. 

I gathered all my documentation in one place and began my email response.  In it, I pointed out 2 important things:

1. The original email lists the due date as today.  It clearly says submissions close at 12:01 AM on the date listed. 
2. I sent an email 1 week ago clearly stating, “I need this earlier than normal due to an exceptional circumstance.”

To add the exclamation point at the end of my email, I not only attached the original email from 10/13 but the one I sent about needing it earlier on 10/19.  It was not enough for me to attach them.  I highlighted the portion in the original that said “COMPLETE BEFORE” then bolded the date.  I also highlighted, underlined, and bolded the portions in the second email about why I was asking for it earlier than usual.  Both are dick moves, but fuck, I’m not wrong and I was exceptionally clear.  For extra emphasis, I added in the email that I send out every 8 weeks reminding people when things like this are due.  You bet I highlighted the part that said, “within 14 days”. 

I could have been a complete douche and copied their supervisor on this, but nope.  Not today. I’m not interested in destroying this person.  I’m simply trying to let them know not to doubt what I’m saying or portray me as being unclear in previous communications. 

And what do you know?  That task was completed within 20 minutes of my reply with no other response.  BOOM.  Winner!

Scenario 2:

(Sorry honey).  I once told my husband he and the boy were on their own for lunch the next day, but that I’d be home in plenty of time to make dinner.  Later that evening, he starts talking about what they decided to do for dinner.  I said, “Oh, you don’t want me to cook?” He said, “You said we were on our own.”  “For lunch, but that’s fine if I don’t need to cook.  You still need to figure out lunch though.”  

Now it’s in this moment where I know for a fact what I said.  Better yet, I didn’t say it, I sent it as an instant message.  I wasn’t going to address it any further because it doesn’t really matter and isn’t important at all.  But then he uttered, “You should probably check your message.  You told me dinner.” 

OH NO HE DIDN’T. 

NOW I have to preface the remainder of this with about half of the time in these situations, he is 100% right.  The other half, he’s just not.  I will eat crow when I’m unsure and check and see that he is, in fact, right.  He has a far superior memory than I do.  Plus, I often mean to say one thing and wind up saying something different while multitasking.  I’m not good at those things.  So, if I’m in doubt but feel strongly about it, I’ll check what I can/can’t prove.  When I’m completely wrong, I’m very comfortable saying, “Oh.  You’re right.  Sorry.”  And yes, that happens quite often.

But this time.  This time I just KNEW I was right.  And when he threw out “you should probably check your message”, he may as well have thrown down the gauntlet.  I was more than willing to pick that bitch up.  See, it didn’t really matter to me that they were going to do their own thing for dinner.  It meant that I could stay out with my friend a bit longer and not worry about dinner and THAT my friends, is an awesome thing.

I let it pass for the moment and went inside.  I sat on the couch and opened up my messaging app.  I took a screen shot of the original message and texted it to him.  I heard his response from outside through the closed door – “SHIT”. 

Honestly, we had a good laugh about it.  He gets me.  I’m so thankful he does.

Scenario 3:

My first ex husband from Virginia once insisted beyond a shadow of a doubt that Robert E Lee Day was the same day as Martin Luther King Jr. Day.  It was in the state of Virginia at the time.  They called it “Lee/King Day”.  BUT he went further to INSIST that it was a federal holiday.  Oh, dear God, I can’t make that up.  I did my best to inform him that there is no way in hell that the Government of the United States of America would have a federal holiday honoring a loser from our Civil War.  And if they did, they certainly wouldn’t put it on the same day earmarked to honor a civil rights leader. 

On a later date, he was trying to give me directions to a building (this was pre-GPS because I’m old), and I asked him, “Will it be on my left or my right?”  You see, when I’m driving somewhere unfamiliar, I need to know every little thing well ahead of time, so I’m not caught off guard in the wrong lane at the wrong time.  I panic. He said to me, “Well, it’s an even number on North 6^th Street, which means it will be on the East side of the street.  If you were on South 6^th street, it would be on the West side.”  He said it with such confidence and bravado.  But it was clear to me that he had no idea how address numbers actually work.  So I said, “No.  All even numbers will always be on one side of the street and odd numbers on the left.  I don’t know where I’m going and therefore I won’t know the compass directions of where I’m heading, so I just want to know if I’ll be turning right or left into the parking lot.”  That should be easy to answer, right?

He stared at me for a moment, so confused and he said, “You’ll be on North 6^th Street, so you’ll be headed north.”  To which I responded “Not necessarily.  The street is ALWAYS ‘North 6^th Street’ no matter which way you’re heading.  It’s not different just because you’re going a different direction.”

Yet, he insisted that he lived there his whole life and while that may be how things work “where you’re from”, that’s not how they work in Virginia.  I had some very bad news for him that evening as I explained how street names and addresses worked with the help of my favorite website, letmegooglethatforyou.com.  Poor dude. 

Scenario 4 – The one where I was wrong

Yes, I’ve been wrong before, but here’s the thing.  When I know for a fact that I did/didn’t do or say something, rest assured I have proof.  If I don’t, I’m not really going to press it.  So, when I DO pursue it, I’m almost always in the right.  It’s a matter of picking your battles.  I don’t pick ones I am not sure about winning. Sometimes though, I’m sure I can win and I decide it’s just not worth the battle.   You should know that only participating in battles that I KNOW I can win does not mean that I am always right.  I make mistakes.  A LOT of them.  I apologize and move on.  That’s how life works.  But there was this time where I was so very sure of myself and the hubs was very sure of himself and, well I chose to hammer it out and walked away with egg on my face. 

I know, I know, you’re waiting for the story.  I’m going to be completely honest with you here – I don’t actually remember it.  Not because it wasn’t important or because I have difficulty admitting my error.  I KNOW I was wrong.  I know I had to apologize for many, many moons.  But I honestly can’t remember it. 

The real reason I can’t is because he’s so righteous that once it’s settled, he doesn’t bring it up again.  It became one of those “lesson learned” moments and I’m pretty sure that’s one mistake I haven’t made again, whatever it was, because there’s been no further discussion of it.  It most likely had something to do with telling him something was happening on a specific day or time and being completely wrong.  Or perhaps it was he told me something and I swore up and down that he didn’t, when he actually did.  This is why everything goes into a calendar now.  And it’s why I prefer to text important tidbits.  Whatever it was made me feel terrible and I now purposely use the calendar for even the smallest things (ask me when the next Packers game is and what network it’s on.  It’s on the calendar!)  If he tells me something like “I’m going to be late because I’ve got to free a cat from a tree”, I keep the text.  If he tells me it vocally, I usually confirm it via test or instant message, just so I know and he knows that I know.

All kidding aside, I’m sure there have been lots of times I was wrong.  I’m sure he could tell you about them if you asked. But I always try to apologize and correct myself moving forward because let’s face it – no one likes to be wrong. 

I know I pronounce a lot of uncommon words incorrectly or use them inappropriately.  He does point those out to me, not to be a dick, but to make sure I’m not making the same mistakes that may make me look foolish one day.  Plus, it’s kind of our thing to correct each other’s verbal missteps.  We laugh about it and I’m totally ok with that.   He still tells me things like “sleep good”, just because it’s funny at this point.  I just can’t bring myself to tell him “ride safe” and when I hear someone else say it, I always add “ly” under my breath.  I hope to say it, out loud, one day and NOT correct myself, just to see the reaction he’d have. 

And just like that, this concludes my missive. 

Mom? Is that you?

I am not cooking today.  So instead, I think I will tell you a humorous tale about my ridiculous life.  Now, some of you will read this and be like “Girl!  That’s not humorous!  Not even a little bit!”  But I assure you that it most certainly is because it’s my life and I choose to see it that way.

My mom died in April of 2019.  No, that’s not the humorous part.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Though there were an awful lot of funny stories from that month she was in the hospital. My sister and I got together at the bar by my house shortly thereafter to write her obituary over beer and vodka.  We got totally hammered, but produced an obit we were very proud of.  It was funny and irreverent, just like her.  Not flowery or serious at all – she was neither of those things, except when she watched NCIS and the Packers then she was serious. 

Something weird happens when family members die.  The sadness is there, the empty space is there, and so are selfish relatives who want every last thing that person had.  It doesn’t matter if that person was their parent, their sibling, their child, their grandparent, whatever.  Everyone seems to want to rush right in and grab up as much of their shit as they possibly can with no regard for what someone else might want or find important. 

When my mom died, no one really wanted any of her shit and the shit that we did want, literally already had our names taped to the bottom of them.  We did this when she was alive, and she thought it was funny.  I remember one time she got an old dining set from a friend and I thought it was beautiful.  While they were moving it into her house, I gathered the paper, a pen, and some tape so I could claim it.  To my surprise, when I got underneath the table to stake my claim, I saw “MARK”.  My brother-in-law, who moved it in to her house, put his name on there before it even got into the house.  They still have that table today and we have holiday meals around it. 

I wanted Mom’s miniature leg lamp from “A Christmas Story”.  It resides on the end table in my living room and if you lift it up and look at the bottom, you’ll see a piece of paper with “KIM” written on it taped to it.  I don’t think I’ll ever remove that.

So, for all of you who have ever said, “I want that when you die”, I’d like to continue that tradition.  Not that I have anything you’d want (except the sex chair), but next time you’re here, just mark it.  I’ll leave written instructions that my crap goes to whoever claimed it while I was alive. Because honestly, if you have the balls to walk into my home and tape your name to something, you deserve to get it when I’m done with it.

I wanted a picture she had hanging in her living room, which I now have hanging in mine.  I also took a framed cross stitch about being a mother, her clock (which used to drive her crazy and now drives me crazy), and an old blanket that had been present in my life since I was a kid. It is gold, orange, white and brown.  I don’t know who crocheted it, but I know when I was a kid and was home sick with grandma, that was the blanket I always used.  It means something to me, and my sister didn’t mind when I claimed it.  She has far more decorating sense than I do though, so she probably couldn’t fathom having those colors in her home. Plus, I think she took the puke/popcorn bowl so it all evened out in the end.

I also took: a pair of her pajamas, all her bath towels, most of her socks, and her Packers gear – most of which is so hideous that even I can’t bring myself to wear any of it.  There were other little things that came home with me.  I think those little herring fork things were hers.  I will never use them and they sit in a ziplock bag in my silverware drawer, but I recall trying to eat a meal with them when I was a kid.  Or maybe it was an appetizer at a family event (NOT herring).  I don’t know.  I just wanted them because they make me laugh.  There’s an old barometer that doesn’t work that had always been at my Grandma’s, and a few other things here and there. But overall, we didn’t want her things.  We wanted HER and couldn’t have her any longer.  We donated most of her things that no one had a need for. 

Mom wanted to be cremated and my sister and I respected that wish.  Side note: when I go, I also want to be cremated.  I don’t want a viewing or anything like that. I don’t care for people looking at me now and I certainly won’t then. If you feel the need for some kind of church service, knock your socks off.  That’s for you and those who are still alive.  That’s not for me.  I’d prefer it if a bunch of people get together, go out for lunch then to a local brewery, and sit around laughing at stories from when I was still alive. they should get really drunk and take an uber home. I give people funny stories and experiences on a regular basis, so it won’t be hard for people to share a crazy memory.  I’ve gotten pretty far away from the point of this, sorry.

Anyway, Mom hadn’t pre-planned or paid for anything, so my sister and I were left to our own devices.  We found a little place that would handle the details of the cremation, transporting her to where they’d cremate her, and then get her back all packed away for us to take home. 

I remember when the actual place that was going to do the cremation called and said something snappy like, “We have received your mother” or maybe it was “Susan is here”.  That’s such a weird thing to hear someone say to you and it seems like there could be a better way to put that.  We were asked to come on down, ensure it was REALLY our mother, and ok the rest of that process.  So, my sister and I went. 

They offered their condolences and walked us down to the hall where we could see her one last time, leave anything with her we’d like her to be cremated with, say our goodbyes, whatever.  In retrospect, we should have put a lot of the crap that was stored in her basement in there with her. It would have saved us a whole lot of time and effort. They told us there was a box of tissues inside the room with her and some markers so that we could write notes or whatever. I still think we should have drawn tattoos on her with those markers. So, we went in…

Now first of all, she’s lying in a cardboard box.  That seemed odd at the time, but in retrospect, it makes complete sense.  We didn’t spend money on a coffin that was just going to get burned, so obviously you put the remains in something that is flammable and doesn’t cost much.  Much like when you start a fire in a fireplace or a bonfire, you use old newspaper to help get it going. I think she was still in the hospital gown that she passed away in.  It didn’t look like anyone brushed her hair or anything, she was just Mom.  I reached out to touch her face – to my shock, she was cold.  Not just like “cold and dead” cold.  She was literally frozen.  I don’t recall either one of us really saying anything about that but I feel like we may have chuckled a little bit. We decided to write notes of love to her on the cardboard box.  I offered to stuff some Kleenex in her gown so she’d go out with bigger boobs.  We kissed her and said our goodbyes and that was that.

Some time later, we got the call that her ashes were ready for us.  We didn’t purchase an urn because our plan was to scatter her ashes in the cemetery with her parents.  We picked her up in what was basically a tall, plain silver-colored cookie tin. When we got the itemized bill from the cremation services, they charged us $275 for that damn thing.  Plain and unadorned with anything but what looked like a little round dog tag with her name on it. Her ashes were inside, in a super thick plastic bag, closed with a twist tie, probably from someone’s loaf of bread.  I wonder what we would have paid for a better going home vessel.  Best not to think about it. There is a reason for this part of the story, and that is to say when I’ve been cremated, I want to be put inside of this:  

Leon on Facebook posted it the other day and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

ANYWAY, we all bought necklaces to hold some of her ashes in.  My sister and I got together to fill the necklaces.  A word of advice to those who haven’t done this.  The ashes aren’t completely fine.  They have fragments of bone, maybe teeth mixed in.  Some of them are stuck together, so you have to chop it up with a plastic spoon, as if you’re about to do a line of coke, so it’ll fit through the tiny funnel and into your wearable.  I would not suggest snorting your loved one. Then you scoop ashes up with the spoon and drop them into the funnel and into your jewelry.  We did 3 or 4 of them that day. 

We got them all filled up and decided to have a toast to her.  I don’t recall what we had, but it was likely a mimosa or some vodka something or other. As my sister poured the beverage into the glass, we realized there was nothing in the area to mix the drink with.  We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.  Then, with no discussion or explanation, one of us picked up that spoon – the one that moments ago held remnants of our mother – stirred up the drink, and drank it.  We laughed about it after because WHO DOES THAT?  I maintain that we each spent 9 months inside of that woman, so it’s only fitting that she gets to hang out inside each of us for a bit. 

We decided we couldn’t part with her ashes and bought a pretty box to keep her in at my sister’s house. I should probably go over there and tape my name to the bottom of it now.  Many months later, I sat down at the table to eat my salad one afternoon, and my necklace charm (with my mom in it) fell off the chain, hit the side of my salad bowl, and landed on my thigh.  I figured maybe the chain was cheap, so I picked up the charm and…  OH MY GOD.  The chain didn’t break.  The charm didn’t break.  But the little screw-on cap that kept my mom safely inside somehow got unscrewed. When the charm fell, Mom fell out.  For a moment, I panicked.  And then, I looked closer.  There in my salad, on top of my ranch dressing, were some of her ashes.  I started to tear up.  Then I saw that the rest of her was on my jeans.  I thought I couldn’t just brush my mother on to the floor.  I couldn’t throw away the salad, because SHE WAS A PART OF IT, and I couldn’t just put her in the trash.  I did what any normal person would do.  I gently brushed her off of my jeans into the palm of my hand, distributed her into my salad, mixed it up, and ATE IT ALL.  A few days later, I was able to go to my sister’s and refill my necklace so I’m grateful we had kept her after all. 

That tin she was in is now filled with something every year and given to each other at Christmas time.  I feel like in 2019 my sister put her homemade caramel corn in it and presented it to me.  In 2020, I filled it with cheese curds and gave it back.  2021 was more caramel corn.  2022 I wasn’t allowed to see anyone in person because of my health, so it’s still sitting in my cupboard waiting for my next great idea and this Christmas she’ll get it back. 

As an aside, that fan finally died the other night.  You see, it had been constantly running in my bedroom since the day I brought it home late April/Early May of 2019.  I can’t sleep without a fan or some other background noise.  I’d turn it off only to clean it occasionally.  But much like my mom, in the very early hours of the morning, it completed its final revolution.  Now I wasn’t there when my mom passed away (it was early morning and we hadn’t gotten up to get there yet) so I don’t know how similar it was to my experience with the fan.  It made a really odd noise that woke me up and then the blades started turning slower and slower until finally it just stopped. Like with Mom, I was expecting it but was still caught off guard and fully unprepared for how to deal with it as I didn’t have another fan.  I think that was Mom letting me know that it was OK to let go of her things.  And maybe get some new socks and/or pajamas.   Anyone want an ugly zip up Packer cardigan sweater?  It’s cable knit.

A walk in the park

“Sometimes Josh, girls are just mean.”  I wiped his tears away and said, “So, let’s go have a Mommy/Josh day of fun!”   And with that, we ran off to the park.

After an hour at the local playground and lunch at McDonald’s, we decided to go check out the big pond/small lake at the park downtown.  We stopped home to grab the camera and some drinks and hit the road.  It took a little while, but we made it to the park and Josh said, “Wait, Mom.  I need a moment to myself.”  He took it…

and we were off!

First stop – Byrd Park!

A word about the geese.  We were walking along the side of the pond and there was so much fecal matter there.  It looked as if it belonged to small dogs, chihuahuas, dachshunds, toy poodles, etc.  It wasn’t until I read the sign about the Canadian Geese that I realized that goose shit looks exactly like little dog shit.  This is a problem.  Families picnic here.  People come here with their younger kids to fish.  It’s  very open for picnics and kite flying, you could probably get in a game of jarts too.

The Canadian geese have more or less taken over.  Damn Canadians are moving in!  Perhaps they discovered that our bacon is WAY better than Canadian bacon (here in the states, we call Canadian bacon “ham”.  *snicker*)  There goes the neighborhood!  Apparently, the park is using border collies to help “control” the Canadian goose population.  The sign assured me that the geese aren’t hurt.  They are just encouraging people to not feed them and the collies chase them.  The hope is that a majority of the geese will migrate elsewhere.  I did not see any border collies, or I’d have taken pictures of them, as they are on my favorite breed of dog list.

My point?  Dear Canada:  Please call your geese home for dinner.  They’re wrecking my park.  Thanks.  Love, Kim

Back to our day at the park.

Josh’s favorite ducks.  They just kept mooning us.  I have a video about a minute long of the ducks coming up for air, and then going back down.

Josh found that if he ACTED like he had bread and held out his hand, the geese followed him around.  <Insert your joke about Canadians here.  I happen to like some Canadians, so I will refrain…>

Josh decided he was Superman and thought if he walked along something and then jumped, that maybe he could fly.  His first attempt was a bust, but he said that’s because he wasn’t high enough.

So he climbed a little higher, with the help of Mom.  I assured him Martha Kent wouldn’t have been all, “Sure Clark, let me help you.”  She would have been all, “Clark Kent!   Yesterday, you picked up a car, and today you’re asking me to help you get on a retaining wall…”

Flying was not in the cards today.  Sorry, SuperMan.

There was a beautiful old holly tree there.  I could stand under it and look up, so I did.

Josh could fit under it too.  NO, HE IS  NOT PEEING.

Did you ever take a picture of a kid doing something and it looked so neat in your mind at the time?  And then, you get home and SEE the picture and you wonder what it was you were trying to get a picture of?  Yeah, that’s that one.  I don’t remember what he was doing, but I assure you, urine was NOT involved.

Next, we ventured to the Maymont Nature Center where we saw fish and turtles, eels and river otters.  We learned about earth and river health and all kinds of things that I really had no interest in.  I am not a fan of earth science.  Sad, but true.  🙂

Happy Spring!

Making illness fun for 30+ years

My mom is 63 years old.  She has never taken very good care of herself and up until a year ago, she was a heavy smoker.  Last year, she got pneumonia and was diagnosed with COPD.  After she was discharged from the hospital, she never picked up another cigarette.  I am so proud of her.

On Tuesday, she went to Urgent Care – pneumonia again.  Of course, they admitted her to the hospital.  I called to talk to her last night.    She let me know that she’s feeling much better and will be able to go home on Friday.   She also wanted to know that when my aunt was with her at Urgent Care, they thought of me.

You should know that one of my most favorite movies is Airplane!  If you’ve never seen it, this won’t make sense.  Just skip this paragraph and go on to the next.  That’s where the sexual stuff is anyhow.   So, Mom has the oxygen flowing and my aunt reaches over to get something and on the way back, knocks the oxygen tube out of place.  As if on cue, she starts to sing, “There’s only one river!”  I immediately got a mental image of my mother…

My sister was up visiting my Mom when I called and the nurse came in to do blood pressure and such, so I had a few moments to talk to my sister.  We chatted about Mom and then my sister said in a very hush-hush voice, “Let me tell you, Mom’s student nurse is a dude, and he is some serious eye candy.”

I asked, “Is he still in there?”

“Yeah, he’s taking her temperature right now,” she responded.

“Rectally?” I asked.

Lisa started laughing and said, “No.  In her mouth.”

At this point I can hear Student Nurse Hottie-Pants laughing, saying, “I assure you it’s orally.”

“Good”, I said.  “Is he using a real thermometer?”  More laughter from my sister.  “OH MY GOD!  IT’S NOT!”  I yelled into the phone.  “GET THAT THING OUT OF HER MOUTH!  THAT’S MY MOM!” I screamed with horror.

Lisa was laughing so hard that she couldn’t talk.  “OH!” I exclaimed with excitement.  “Ask him if he’s ever been in a Turkish prison!”

My mom got back on the phone and made me tell her what I was saying.  So I did.  That got HER laughing and coughing and hacking.  I am anxiously awaiting my inheritance of $5.98, so I figured I’d go in for the kill.  “Whatever you do Mom, just remember that they don’t take your temperature vaginally either.   Also, be sure if they say they want to put the thermometer in your mouth, make sure it’s small and skinny and connected to something.”

Not to be out-done by her punk daughter, A.K.A. “me”, my mother finishes for me, “But not connected to a man, right?”

“Yeah,” I said laughing.  I wanted to be sure she was understanding what the doctors were telling her.  “Do you have a black doctor?  Because I speak jive.”

We laughed a little more and it was time to say good-bye.  “Mom, if you need me when you get home, I’ll find a way to get home and help you out for a little while.”

“Surely, you’re not serious.  You don’t think I can take care of myself?  They won’t let me go until I can breathe well you know.  I’ll be fine.”

I simply replied, “I am serious – and don’t call me Shirley.”

A budding artist?

My child came home from school yesterday, beaming and it wasn’t because he was announced as the highest fundraiser in his school for the Jump Rope for Heart.

“Mom!  Guess what?”

“Um, you found a dinosaur egg?” 

Josh giggled.  “No…”

“Uh, there was a family of baby otters in your lunchbox this morning?”

“No!  Guess what we got to play with today?”

“Operation.  Kerplunk.  Checkers.  What’s in Ned’s Head…”

By now, he’s getting irritated and reaches into his bag.  “I drew a picture of it!”

He handed me this…

 

At first, I was shocked.  Why did my kid draw a wiener?  Why are the balls so big?  How does he know there is hair there when you get older?  Why do they have organized “play with your weenie” time in kindergarten?  Is that what they do during rest time now?

I was about to ask him questions and then I actually read what the paper said…