Note: I wrote this in 2010, when my son was barely six years old. This may seem heartless or callous to some, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit lately. I enjoy hanging out with my son. Whether we’re building things with Legos, folding complex paper airplanes, or just exploring streets deserted… (read more)
I haven’t finished reading a book in at least a year, and I blame most of that on the drastic change in my lunch hour. I never was a fast reader, instead poring over the words at pretty much the same pace one might speak them aloud. I always had a book going, and finished… (read more)
I worry that reading anything longer than a few sentences is becoming a dying art, and our increasing reliance on technology is ushering it to the graveyard. I’m just as guilty as the next person of helping it happen. Once our son is in bed, my first thought is, “What can we watch?” If my… (read more)
Customer service truly is a dying art. In some places, it’s dead and being beaten. My nine-year-old son and I ventured to our city’s historic downtown district on Sunday afternoon. Our goals were simple: enjoy the 80-degree weather in December and find something for him at the Star Wars toy store. For five dollars. On… (read more)
It’s strange, the things I remember from childhood. My son’s eight years old, and although I don’t remember much from when I was that age, the things I recall are as clear as if they happened yesterday. I know I was in Mrs. Elslander’s 3rd grade class, but I don’t remember much about her or… (read more)