And this is why I call them germy, booger-pickin', butt-diggin' little weasels. And Bobapalooza 2026.

Near the end of the afternoon yesterday, as we were all cleaning up the room so we could get the five o' clock box out, I glanced up to see Ethan (Kindergarten)  standing in the middle of the room with his pants and underwear at his knees. He was holding his waistband with his left hand and digging in his butt with the right.

Sheesh.

Couple of the kids were laughing, a couple more were saying, "DUDE!"

He looked around, perplexed, but pulled his pants up about the time I reached him.

"Ethan, what's up, Buddy?"

He looked at me, blinking his brown eyes and said in explanation, "There's poop left in my butt and I was trying to get it."

"Okay, well, you can't do it out here where people can see you. Go to the bathroom and sit on the toilet and clean your bottom. Then wash your hands, okay?"

He wandered off, still looking confused.
Geez.

So while he was taking care of business, I called his dad. It was the end of the day anyway, but I wanted to get an idea of how far away he was and have him hurry a bit if possible. 

I mean really.

I always start a phone call that's not urgent with these words. "This is not an emergency." Getting a phone call from your child's day care can be scary.

Told him what was going on. 

He was apologetic, said he'd talk to Ethan about keeping his pants up in public. I told him that it was age-appropriate and that none of the other kids would bother Ethan about it. And that in the 22 years I've been doing this job, this isn't the first time that's happened.

Funny that he was more concerned about the little guy showing his butt than what was in his butt. 

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You know the difference between inlaws and outlaws, right?
Outlaws are wanted.

Bob was here from September 5th to the 17th. 
I love the guy, but I know I've discussed that timing with him before.
Visiting us during the first few weeks of the school year is really a lot for me, personally. I'm tired, harried and hurried and not fit company for man or beast as they say. 

If you don't believe me, you can ask the man or beast I live with.
He'll tell ya, and he won't sanitize it. Ha.

Bob is 89. He'll be 90 in July. He's still mentally sharp, doing fairly well physically, too.

Good thing on the physical condition, since he caught some creeping crud on the airplane flight and brought for all of us to share. 

About that... Eric got the same respiratory crap. Lyssa also was ill. I got sick last weekend, ran a fever the entire two days and slept about 28 hours. No kidding. But I didn't get the respiratory stuff. In case you wondered. Now, back to the story.

Bob was hacking and snorting and congested. He's in decent shape for a guy his age, but pneumonia can creep up really fast and I was concerned. 

Eric took time off work to hang out with his father, so on Tuesday as I was leaving for work, I told him, "Your dad needs medical attention. He sounds awful. Don't take no for an answer, he needs to go to urgent care right now."

I was right. They started him on some serious antibiotics.
Couple days later he was feeling a lot better and told me that on the day I insisted he see a doctor that he was 'so weak he couldn't get up from his bed'. He explained that he had actually rolled out onto the floor and pulled himself up on a chair.

Ugh. 

Someone explain men to me? Maybe with small words and diagrams?

On October 14th, it will be 47 years since I met Bob. 

In that time, he has never said a negative thing to me. 
Not one. 

He complimented me on my children, thought they were wonderful (they are, just so we're clear) told me more than once that I am the best thing that ever happened to his son, and didn't say a word against homeschooling or anything else we did while raising our young humans. 

But if you'd told me 47 years ago that I'd be wiping up big ol' Bob Lung Cookies from the bathroom sink, I might have run away screaming.

No way of knowing now, I guess.