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…

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…