It’s a double sick day. C. came home early yesterday with a fever and L., who was already on medication for a bad cough, was burning up this morning. Good times. We’re deep into a Netflix binge that will likely last all day.

I got called to come pick C. up about 2:20 yesterday. When I got to school, M. was sitting in the office with a big, proud grin on her face. After we got into the van, I asked her if it was cool to hang out in the office.

“What do you mean, why would that be cool?” she asked.
“Well, you get to hear everything that’s going on, see everyone that comes through, and know what Mrs. H and Mr. H (the school admin and principal) are up to. And you do like to know everyone’s business.”

She tried to play it off and acted like nothing much was going on.

Of course, later in the night she couldn’t help herself and started telling us all kind of St. P’s gossip. I knew it!

I didn’t hear all the conversation, but a couple nights ago I heard S. telling L. not to use the word chubby, because it can hurt some people’s feelings.

“But Mom,” L. shouted, “chubby people are awesome!”

I don’t know where she got that, but I like it.

Tuesday was haircut day for me. I go to a local spot where I can get in and out in less than 20 minutes. I never ask for a specific person, but tend to have one of two or three stylists1 each time. One of them is full of opinions. Once she told me that she refuses to take any medication, including Advil/Tylenol, because she thinks medicines cause more problems than they solve. This week she told me that she didn’t think the Miami Dolphins controversy was that big of a deal because “everyone uses that one word,” and gave me examples of how she used it growing up and “it didn’t mean nothin’.”

It’s always an awkward position to be sitting in a chair while a person cuts your hair with sharp, pointed scissors and they begin dropping opinions that you disagree with. It’s one thing to talk about sports or pop culture or your favorite restaurants. It’s another to get into more political matters. I just don’t want anyone to shave a bald spot where I can’t see it, or “accidentally” stab my skull or nick my ear because I’ve argued that I think medications are generally good things or using racial slurs is never cool.

Like that old man who started talking about race at the football game earlier this year, sometimes it’s easier to keep your mouth shut, nod, and hope it ends quickly.

Speaking of high school sports, I cover my first girls game tomorrow night.

  1. I don’t know the proper term. “Person that cuts my hair” is too awkward, and I don’t go to a barber shop, so they’re not barbers.