Pitiful

Sarah is at band camp this week, so I should not be getting phone calls from her during the day, so when I see her on the caller ID, I know it won't be good.  She says, "Unfortunately, much to my dismay, I have bled through my underwear and my shorts.  Can you bring me some?"

This should be a 10-minute project, but it turns out to be much longer, because for some reason, neither of our children use dressers.  They just heap all their clothes up on the floor.  I don't understand this, as both their father and I organize our clothes in closets and drawers.  So I go in her room and waste a ridiculous amount of time searching for shorts and underwear.  There's no rhyme or reason to where they might be.  I finally find some, put them in a bag, and take off for the school.  As I'm turning in, I see a sad sight: Sarah standing in the pouring rain, bloody, wearing a mask, looking miserable.

Update on the dads:  My dad was released Sunday and is home.  Mike's dad is being moved to Kindred Hospital, where they only allow one visitor, and it has to be the same visitor, which will be Kathy, so Mike is leaving work early today to go see him while he still can and say goodbye again.