Seriously, a couple of days ago my darling first grader walked down the stairs and said, “Hey Mama! What’s a hickey?” My very perceptive daughter saw that my jaw was on the floor. “You know, a hickey…” My mind scrambled. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Surely it wasn’t in a Hannah Montana episode. Did she hear it at school? She doesn’t ride a bus… I was trying to explain it physically, not how you obtain one, “It’s kind of like a bruise…”

“I have to dress like one at school tomorrow,” Arleigh says, matter of factly. My shoulders shrug with a visible sigh of relief.

“Yeah, Mama, we have to dress like a hickey tomorrow,” Hanan chimes in, ready for a new outfit.

So now I’m thinking, what can it be? “You mean a hick?” I ask, wondering if I should be offended. I mean, I probably look like a hick every day that I go in to volunteer.

“No Mama, a hickey,” they insist.

So a quick email to Arleigh’s teacher and today was hippie day! Hallelujah. My faith in the public school system is restored. Tomorrow’s post… Why Hanan thinks her soccer coach is mean.