Sometimes, the best thing we can get in life is perspective. There’s no more well worn trope than to have a character realize what’s important in life due to a birth/death/disease/zombie apocalypse/extra five minutes of movie trailers/etc. It’s an easy-to-use fallback because, at least for most people I’ve met, there’s a lot of truth to be found in that lazy writing. These past few days,…
A few weeks ago, I read “The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls” by Claire Legrand. I really enjoyed it, despite some disturbing parts–which were Finley’s favorite. For days after we finished, Finley asked me again and again to read the “Lobby” scene, which was one of the most frightening scenes in the book. Since this is the boy who thinks Rescue Bots is on…
Finley has a bit of a problem with cussing, with some of his earliest phrases being such decidedly not G rated language like “Dammit, it’s out of batteries.” His latest phrase is calling all persons, places, and things, a bunch of “bullshid.” Normally, I try to redirect his foul mouth down more appropriate avenues (“scalliway” and “horse hockey” are two of my temporary successes), but…
I had to use the clickbait title. The post was begging for it. Anyway, I’ve been pretty open about the difficulties we’ve been having with Finley over the past month or so, which haven’t so much subsided as become an expected part of life. While at times I’m on the verge of jumping off the Serenity Now ledge into the pit of insanity, especially considering…
Since converting this blog into more of a family blog, one thing I’ve worried about is the perspective the ten or so people who read it will have of my kids. I’m especially concerned that I’m conveying an overly negative view of Finley. Maybe that’s just on my mind thanks to my last post. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been more annoyed with him than normal over the…
Coming home that night was a struggle. Part of me wanted to pull into the Good Times around the corner from my office and eat all the custard. Blowing up like Violet Beauregarde seemed like a valid excuse not to go home. That wasn’t the responsible thing to do, though, and, it turns out, I’m supposed to be a responsible adult. Twenty minutes later, the garage…