Why is the sky blue?

This story was adapted, with permission,  from a fellow infantryman’s Facebook post.

I was feeling pretty good about life this morning. I slept well last night, and got up early enough to throw together a decent breakfast. It was Friday, and I was ready for the weekend. To make things even better, today was a scheduled half-day of work. My line at the factory was being shut down for maintenance, so I was looking forward to having a free afternoon.

It was just after 1 P.M. when I arrived at home, and I was surprised to find my wife’s car in the driveway. I walked inside and my five-year-old daughter was sitting on the couch with a book.

“Hi, daddy,” she said sounding sad.

“Hey, honey. What are you doing home from school so early? Are you sick?” I asked.

She looked down and shook her head, “No,” she said.

About that time, my wife came walking around the corner into the room. “We need to talk,” she said.

Oh shit. What’s going on, I wondered.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“Your daughter was sent home from school early today,” she said dragging out her words in a low angry voice while glaring at me over the top of her glasses.

“Why? What happened?”

“She swore at her teacher,” she said.

“Really? What did she say?” I asked in disbelief.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Okay,” I said as I turned around to look at my daughter. She was still sitting on the couch staring at her light-up princess tennis shoes, which were dangling several inches above the floor.

“What happened?”

She looked up at me with her big teary puppy dog eyes, “We were learning about the atmosphere today in science class. Mrs. Johnson asked us why the sky is blue, daddy. She called on me when I raised my hand, and I told her what you always say. She said you were wrong.”

“Okay,” I said, “but why did you get sent home?”

“I told her that my daddy says that ‘the sky is blue because God loves the infantry,’ and she said, ‘well, your daddy’s wrong.'”

I turned to my wife and kind of shrugged, “What’s so bad about that?”

“That wasn’t the problem,” she said with her arms crossed. “The problem was afterward, when Mrs. Johnson turned her back, and your daughter called her a ‘fucking POG,’ in front of the whole class.”

My mouth fell open, and I tried unsuccessfully to hide my proud smirk from my angry wife’s eyes.

“You can laugh,” she said. “You have a parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Johnson on Monday at 3:30.”

I packed a cooler and some snacks, and I took my daughter fishing for the rest of the afternoon. We had a great day catching some crappie and talking about grunt shit.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Johnson. See you next week.

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