If you had to eat one food every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?

I'm not saying you could eat only this food, but you have to have at least one serving of whatever it is every single day until you die.

What's interesting about this question is that for some people, the answer varies depending on when you ask them. They may be in the middle of a strawberry phase or a quinoa kick, and so they'll say whatever food they're most "into" at the moment. Ask them a week later and it's likely to be something completely different.

There's also the undeniable reality that for most of us, no matter how much you love a certain food, you're going to get tired of it if you eat it every day (and I include chocolate on that list, ladies). This isn't just me, right? Too much of a good thing is no longer a good thing, in my experience.

Regardless, recognizing all of that, if I have to provide a single answer to the question, I'm going with apples. Which I realize is kind of a boring response. But then again, if one food is going to be on the menu for the absolute rest of my time on earth, then it needs to be something solid and dependable rather than flashy and quick-to-turn-repulsive, doesn't it?

And if I have to be specific about what kind of apple, as documented on this blog previously, I'm going with the tried-and-true Gala apple. Galas are sweet, crunchy and among the most reliable members of the apple family. 95% of the time, any Gala you pick up at the grocery store or the farmer's market is going to deliver in terms of taste and texture.

In fact, in the case of Gala apples, I'm really already living out this proposition. In the last 365 days – and this is no exaggeration – I would say there have been at most 10 days in which I didn't consume at least one Gala apple. I'm not kidding. I even took a bunch with me when I traveled to Germany and the UK back in February.

So Gala apples it is for me. How about you? As always, comments on Facebook or below this post are welcome and appreciated.

Hey, you guys, high school football season starts tonight!

I have an unhealthy love for high school football.

In my life I have played it, written about it, and watched a whole lot of it. When I was a newspaper sports journalist, the vast majority of my attention from mid-August through the state championship games in late November was devoted to high school football.

And now, I am a parent of a player.

Well, sort of. I mean, I happen to think Jared is a high school football player, but some would disagree because he's "only" the kicker. He also plays soccer at Wickliffe High School, but beginning tonight and for the next several Fridays, he'll put on the shoulder pads and become a football player.

Jared has made one tackle in his career, and it was the last game of last season, when he only handled kickoffs for Wickliffe (and not placekicks). A kid on the other team fielded Jared's kickoff at about his own 15-yard line, darted up the middle, avoided three or four of our tacklers, cut to the right sideline and was off to the races.

Jared had been doing kickoffs all season, but he had yet to get involved in any meaningful contact. Until that moment.

As the returner sped down the sideline, I realized the only thing standing between him and a touchdown was my son, the kicker. Kickers aren't known as proficient tacklers, and truth be told, no one had ever taught Jared how to go about getting someone running full speed down to the ground.

But to my immense pride, The Boy took exactly the right angle, put his shoulder down, and knocked the returner out of bounds at the 6-yard line. True, the other team would go on to score a few plays later, but it wasn't because of my son. My son made a tackle and helped his team.

Which brings us to this season, when he is the clear #1 kicker, handling both kickoffs and placekicks for the Blue Devils, the same team for which I served as a running back almost 30 years ago.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things, the results of these games are meaningless. But this is my son, playing for my team, engaging in a sport with which he has only one season's experience. Every time they announce his name I honestly almost tear up, even if it's just when he's coming onto the field to execute one of the many squib kickoffs the Wickliffe coaching staff loves so much.

But beyond The Jared Factor, I also love high school football for the sights, the sounds, and even the smells (crisp fall air, greasy concession stand food, stinky shoulder pads, etc.) The deeper we get into the season, the colder it gets. But no matter how wintry it is, no matter how the team is performing, the Wickliffe faithful come out to watch their team, both at home and on the road.

And I'm one of those fans. I also serve as the PA announcer for the band, and it should be noted that Jared grabs his saxophone and plays with that band during every halftime, as does my trumpet-playing freshman daughter Melanie. If nothing else, Terry and I had a lot of kids to ensure that various Wickliffe teams and organizations would be well stocked into the immediate future...

Anyway, game #1 is tonight, as Wickliffe travels west to Rocky River, Ohio, to take on the Lutheran West High School Longhorns. I can't wait. Go Devils!

The pros and cons of a 45-minute daily commute to work

My office is approximately 35 miles from my house. In some parts of the country, that wouldn't be especially remarkable. Here in Northeast Ohio, it at least puts my commute on the long-ish end of the spectrum.

Not that I'm complaining, exactly. I actually enjoy that alone time in the car. But after a while, it gets to be a lot of alone time. Too much alone time, maybe.

My daily drive takes me through Downtown Cleveland, then southward to the little community of Olmsted Township. There is relatively little traffic, especially once I make my way through downtown and start travelling in the opposite direction of all the south- and west-siders trying to get to their office buildings.

For me, it's just a matter of distance. And it's the longest distance I've ever had to drive in my 24 years in the full-time workforce.

I pass the time in a variety of ways. Audiobooks are good, as are classical music CDs and WCLV, our local classical music station.

I also flip around to other radio stations, particularly the ones focusing on sports talk and 80s music. I can take both of those genres in large doses. Other stuff on the radio? It gets tedious even after a few minutes.

I know people who drive a lot farther every week than I do, but I have to say, that daily 70-mile round trip pushes my patience to the brink. I'll get to the half-hour mark or so and think, "OK, I don't want to be driving anymore. I'm just going to stop here, open up my laptop and do some work on the side of the freeway."

Which I never do, of course, but don't think I'm not tempted.

This is a First World Problem of the highest order. I get that. The fact is, I have a job to commute to. I make enough money to support my family of seven people. I can actually put an English & History degree to good use and for the benefit of society, which is a lot of more than many liberal arts majors can say.

Those are all blessings. But between the boredom, the frequent trips to the gas station and the constant worry about the wear and tear I'm putting on my (admittedly very durable) Honda, I'm starting to wonder whether those "Make $5 million a year working from home!" ads may hold some attraction after all.

The commute from my bedroom to the living room to start the work day would be heavenly. That I could handle, though I guess the audiobooks I listen to would need to be confined to short stories.

For the good that I would I do not...

I feel a certain kinship with the Apostle Paul when, in the seventh chapter of his epistle to the Romans, he writes this:

"I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing."

I have the very best intentions in life (I think). I want to be a good Christian, a good husband, a good father, a good professional, and a good coach. And I have a pretty clear idea of what I need to do in order to excel in each of those areas.

The problem, of course, is just what Paul says: "For what I want to do, I do not do..." I want to read the Bible every day, get the right amount (and right kind) of exercise, eat the most healthy foods, give my kids the best advice, etc.

But at any given time, I only do some of those things. And just when I think I have one area mastered, I move on to address another, and the first area goes back to its old, substandard ways.

I realize nobody is perfect. I know I'll never be at the top of my game when it comes to every role I have to play in life.

But my greatest flaw – the most limiting of my many less-than-desirable characteristics – is my inability to appreciate what I already have and what I do well, but instead to focus on the never-ending list of things I don't (and perhaps cannot) do well.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way, right? I want to make so many changes to my life that sometimes I don't know where to start. I should begin with one thing, I know, but which thing? And how do I improve it? And how much improvement is enough?

Rather than just starting somewhere and concentrating on one thing, I allow myself to be paralyzed by the whole.

I need to get better at that.

I trust you'll see the irony there...

I got married sort of young...would I advise my own kids to do the same?

I got married 20 days after graduating from college.

I was 22 years old at the time, and Terry and I had been engaged for nearly four years. We had been a couple for more than six years, having gotten together when we were both 16.

That's how it worked out for me. I married my high school sweetheart. Doesn't happen all that often these days, but it did for me. And 23 years later, we're still going strong, thanks be to God.

So given that experience, should one of my kids come to me today and say they want to get married, would I be OK with it?

Ugh, I don't know. Just because it worked out for me doesn't mean it's something that everyone should do. And nowadays, it's not something most people even want to do. Last year, the average age for Americans getting married was 27 for women and 29 for men, an all-time high (and I'm surprised the averages were that low).

On the other hand, just because you're young doesn't mean it's impossible for you to meet the person you're destined to be with the rest of your life. It does happen. It's not out of the question. It's not even uncommon. It's just that it's unlikely the person you're dating at 18 is the person you'll still be with at 68.

My oldest daughter, Elissa, who is 21, has been with her boyfriend Mark for a year or two now (I honestly don't know exactly how long it has been...I have trouble keeping track of my car keys, let alone the lengths of my children's relationships). I like Mark a lot. He's a good guy, and he treats my baby well. Can't ask for much more than that.

If it should come to pass in another year or so, after they're both out of college and presumably have stable jobs, that they should inform of us of their intent to marry, I would probably be fine with the concept. I would make sure they fully understand what they're getting into and how people change inevitably over time, but ultimately I would probably give my blessing or whatever.

Because that's the thing, people do change, right? No one is the same person at 40 they were at 20. Your essential characteristics may still pretty much be the same, but the way you see the world and the way you react to it will inevitably shift over time.

The question in a marriage is whether the two parties will change in roughly the same direction. You might get along great and agree on almost everything when you're fresh out of school. But will that still be the case when you're getting ready to collect Social Security? It's a hard thing to predict, but it's still something important to think about before you tie the knot.

Now if 9-year-old Jack told me he was going to get married, well...I'd tell him at least to wait until he's 22. That's what smart people like his mom and dad do.

We bought a $1,000 dishwasher

(NOTE: This is our once-a-month Blog Rerun, in which I bring back a post that has appeared on this blog at some point in the past. Today's post about the $1,000 dishwasher first ran on May 23, 2012, and it's one of my favorite things I've written. Flint Parker still makes me laugh.)

We bought a new dishwasher.

I realize how unimportant this is to you, but I'm thrilled about it. I end up being the one who loads the dishwasher most nights, so this is one appliance that matters to me.

The old dishwasher cost something like $400. It lasted four years. The new dishwasher was about $1,000. Can I assume it's going to last 2-1/2 times longer? Probably not. But I'll tell you what, it had better hold up longer than four years.

We bought the dishwasher at B&B Appliance, one of those family-owned stores that has been in business since the Stone Age. Seriously, I'll bet these people were selling hand-crank washing machines and wooden TVs in the Oklahoma Territory 150 years ago. They may not always have the best price, but their service is excellent and they stand behind their products.

I know this mostly because my father-in-law Tom shops there. Tom is not a guy who just rushes into things like buying thousand-dollar dishwashers. He has many years of experience in buying (and fixing) appliances. So if he says B&B is good, I'm with him.

The guy who sold us the dishwasher is named Flint Parker. Really, that's his name: Flint Parker. Isn't that great? If I'm being honest, I'll admit that part of the reason Flint was able to close the deal with us was because of his name. Plus, he looks like Morgan Freeman, and I like Morgan Freeman.

Another reason we bought this particular dishwasher is because it's a KitchenAid. Some years ago I bought my wife a KitchenAid mixer. The thing not only weighs 5 tons, I think it could mix concrete. Terry only uses it to make cakes and stuff, though, so I can't confirm the concrete thing. But it's definitely heavy duty and will last for decades. I'm hoping the same is true for the dishwasher.

Yet another reason we bought it is because it has four spray arms across the bottom. Most dishwashers (including our old one) have only two. Flint walked around the store opening up various dishwashers and showing us that, unlike the KitchenAid, every one had only two and occasionally three spray arms.

I asked why four spray arms is better than two, and Flint looked at me like I was slow. I guess I understand, but if four spray arms are so revolutionary, why don't other manufacturers make their dishwashers that way? I didn't ask Flint because I was afraid he wouldn't like me. And I'm not sure I could handle having Morgan Freeman not like me.

Flint said he has been working at B&B for 26 years and selling appliances for 50. That means he's at least in his late 60s, but he didn't seem that old to me. He was wearing a button-up sweater vest and he looked good in it. Not many people look good in a button-up sweater vest, let me tell you. I guess it takes someone with the confidence of a veteran appliance salesman to really pull off that look.

Anyway, we went ahead and bought the dishwasher, which now that I think about it didn't really cost a thousand bucks. The total was a thousand with delivery and installation, and I was happy to pay extra to have the thing brought to my house and hooked up. I suppose I could manage the job myself after much reading of the instruction manual and the requisite weeping and gnashing of teeth. But really, it was worth the extra cash to come home and see it correctly installed and ready to use.

It's really quiet. And it has buttons on top of the door instead of on the outside. It feels very space age to me, like the sort of dishwasher you would see on Star Trek. If I had the money, I would equip our house with nothing but Star Trek appliances. That's a very tempting thing to do, especially when you walk into a store with all of the latest models.

And believe me, B&B had all of the latest models. Washing machines, dryers, TVs, ovens, refrigerators. They were all there, and they were all insanely expensive. They had a model kitchen that Terry very much wanted. I did some quick math in my head and calculated that all of the appliances together in the model kitchen would set you back about 25 grand. That's some serious cash...cash we didn't have.

So for now we'll content ourselves with the new dishwasher. And with the fact that we now have a friend named Flint Parker. He was nice enough to give us his email address. I think I'm going to email him and let him know how quiet his four-armed Kitchen-Aid dishwasher is.

My kids just got out of school 5 minutes ago and now they're going back tomorrow...

I have been guilty, on this blog, of being very "BACK IN MY DAY!" when it comes to complaining about the way school is for my kids now vs. the way it was for me back in the 70s and 80s.

Which is unfair, really. I like our local school district a lot. I think they do a good job educating my children.

So when I whine today about the fact that my youngest three children go back to school tomorrow (yes, on August 18th), please know that I do so with the understanding that Wickliffe isn't the only school district following this trend of ever-earlier start dates.

I just sort of wish we could go back to the way it used to be.

As I've mentioned before, when I was in elementary school (and maybe a bit beyond?), we never used to go back to school until after Labor Day. Of course, we also didn't get out for the summer until mid-June, but I liked that schedule. Once you get into early September, summer is much more "over" than it is in mid-August.

Because that's the problem, you see: IT'S STILL SUMMER RIGHT NOW. I'm writing this several weeks in advance and thus don't know what the weather will be like in mid-August as you read it, but I'm betting it feels a lot more like summer than it does fall. And "fall" is when you should be going back to school. Not summer, when 90-degree temperatures are far more likely in Northeast Ohio.

Now, having said that, I will also say that I'm a proponent of year-round school. If we're going to mess with the traditional academic calendar, let's go all the way and do it for the right reasons.

The fact that schools let out for so long every summer is a remnant of an age when kids were needed to tend the crops and bring in the harvest. That's not the case for 99% of American students anymore, so why can't we have the kids go to school 9 weeks at a time, then take a 4-week break and do that year-round? If you want the summer break to be a little longer, than make two of the breaks from other times of the year last only 3 weeks.

The point is, the kids don't need to be off for 11 or 12 weeks at a time, do they? I'm not an educational expert and am happy to be corrected on this, but I would venture to say shorter breaks would mean increased retention of learned knowledge and skills, no? I remember back in my school days that the first several weeks always seemed to be spent in review anyway, so why not shorten breaks and get right into new learning?

Am I wrong there, teachers? Let me know if I am.

In any case, if we're going to stick with the current set-up, my vote is to keep summer vacation going until early September and then let the kids out round about June 15th. If one of you could look into that for me and make it happen, I would appreciate it.

Woe to you, parents of goalies, kickers and pitchers!

If you have a kid who participates in sports, you know how simultaneously wonderful and agonizing it can be to watch them play.

Wonderful, of course, when they succeed. You hope it teaches them the value of hard work, effort, being part of a team, etc. The joy on their faces is like nothing else.

And agonizing, of course, when they fail. However terrible they feel, you as the parent feel 10 times worse. There are also lessons to be learned from failure, but they're less apparent (and less welcome) in the moment.

All parents of athletes know these emotions. But the people who feel them most are the parents of kids who are soccer/hockey goalies, football kickers, and baseball pitchers.

That's because those are the positions in which success or failure are particularly amplified. These are the players who are out there by themselves, standing in the most glaring of spotlights.

The goalie who saves a penalty kick, the kicker who puts a game-winning field goal through the uprights, and the pitcher who leads his team to victory are all heroes. But the keeper who lets in a weak goal, the kicker who botches that field goal attempt, and the pitcher who gives up 10 runs in an inning are all anti-heroes. Not hated, exactly, but certainly the root cause of everyone's disappointment.

Regardless of how they perform, goalies, kickers and pitchers are all to be commended just for putting themselves out there in such high-profile situations. The very act of trotting onto the field to try and kick an oblong spheroid through two narrow goal posts from several yards away takes guts of a high degree.

But as in the world of work, athletes of all ages are ultimately judged on whether or not they get the job done. And eventually they all learn what failure in those circumstances is like.

I am the parent of a soccer goalie (Melanie, age 14) and a football kicker (Jared, age 17). In Melanie's case, even beyond success and failure is the very real specter of injury. Soccer goalies are tasked with diving on balls amidst a swirling sea of flailing legs and rock-hard cleats. They get hurt all the time, as Melanie's twice-broken fingers can attest.

As for Jared, he had it relatively easy last football season when he only handled kickoffs. There's not a lot of pressure there, though he did have his ups and downs. This season he's competing to be the placekicker and kickoff guy, so the pressure increases exponentially. Botch an extra point and you could lose a game. No kick in football is easy, but kicking when the game is on the line is one of the most pressure-packed situations in all of sports.

So hats off to the young athletes who willingly step into those positions. And hats off and prayers to their parents, who rejoice and suffer right along with them to a level the kids can't even comprehend until they one day become parents themselves. I share in your nervous stares and sweaty palms.

Pet death pool: Which one of our animals will die next?

When you're a parent, the death of a pet is no small thing.

First and foremost, you're in charge of comforting your children and helping them understand that death is natural, that Fluffy had a good life, that yes we can eventually get another kitten, etc.

Then of course there's the problem of disposing of the carcass. This isn't a bad thing with goldfish or small rodents. It's quite another matter if you're talking a St. Barnard or a horse.

So while I enjoy the mini zoo we have in our house, it never escapes my notice that one by one, these animals will all eventually die. And when they do, the responsibility for handling their corpses will fall on me as the father. This is not always the case, of course, but I would say dads handle dead animal management to a greater degree than moms do.

So I constantly keep an unofficial Animal Dead Pool going in my head. At any given time, I try to have a pretty good idea of the overall health of every pet in the house so that I can be prepared when it's time for one of them to take the Eternal Dirt Nap and I'm tasked with finding them a suitable resting place.

Right now, I would classify our pets into three general categories. Here's the breakdown:

Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon

CHARLIE (CAT)

Charlie is a Lynx Point Siamese, and thus he has a pretty slight build. But it took him maybe three weeks of living in our house to establish himself as the alpha male. Thus, he rules the roost and is rarely bothered by the other cats. Charlie does what he wants when he wants, so there's no stress in his life. His only real peril is a penchant for escaping the house and spending the night outside, but he's tough enough to protect himself, so no worries there.

SERENDIPITY (HAMSTER)

You generally don't see hamsters placed into this category because they don't live that long, maybe three years on average. But this animal, which is actually a hairless "naked" hamster, is so secluded that I forget she exists. Chloe is her owner/mother, and she does a good job keeping her fed and cared for. Serendipity will be with us a good while longer, I dare say.

A Trip to the Vet Is Probably a Good Idea

FRED & GEORGE (CATS)

I lump these two together because they're brothers and they both suffer from the constant stress of trying to avoid Charlie and Bert, a good chunk of whose lives are spent tormenting Fred and George. Stress kills, man, and I'm sure it will shorten the lifespan of these two felines. Plus Fred is demonstrably overweight, so I'm sure there's some hardening of the arteries in there for him, as well.

LUCY (GUINEA PIG)

She always looks nervous to me, so I'm thinking stress is a risk factor for her, too. Plus, she's a long-haired guinea pig, and they tend not to live as long as their shorter-haired counterparts (usually about 5 years). I don't know how old Lucy is, but I just don't see it lasting, you know? She has that dull "It's OK If I Die, Really, I Don't Mind" look in her eyes.

PERCY (CHINCHILLA)

Chinchillas live a shockingly long time, at least to me. The figures vary, but domestic chinchillas can stick around anywhere from 10 to even 20 years. I was thinking/hoping our two would last half that long, but no such luck. Anyway, given that, you'd think I would put them both into the "Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon" category. But Percy's feedings are sometimes sporadic, and I'm afraid at some point we'll just forget about giving him food even though his cage is right there in the living room and he'll die. I hope not, but I wouldn't put it past us.

Get the Shovel Ready

BERT (CAT)

Bert is huge. He's a long-haired breed, which of course makes him look even bigger than he already is. But even if you shaved him, you would still be left with a lot of cat. Elissa and Terry rescued Bert from a busy street in the middle of winter a few years ago. He still has some effects from that experience, including what we can only assume was frostbite in his paws. That, plus his excess weight, plus the fact that he moves so slowly that sometimes it seems he's already dead = don't buy any green bananas, Bert.

ANDROMEDA (CHINCHILLA)

Again, chinchillas live a good while, but Andromeda doesn't seem like she's long for this world. She has, on multiple occasions, chewed through her cage and escaped, only to be found days later wandering around the house. One of these times she's going to get out and we'll never see her again. Or at least we'll never see her alive again. We'll certainly smell her once she starts to decompose somewhere in the hidden recesses of the basement. And then of course who will get the call to go down there, scoop her up and bury her in the backyard? That's right, everybody, it'll be Good Old Dad!

My wife and I really never fight, and I'm hoping that's a good thing

I'm not kidding you when I say Terry and I never fight. I mean, really, it never happens. We just don't do it.

We talk all the time. I see her every day. And yet we never engage in what most people would classify as a "fight" or a "spat." We rarely raise our voices, and the number of times in our 23 years of marriage when we "weren't talking to each other" for more than five minutes has been maybe, what, twice? Three times?

We have disagreements, sure. And every once in awhile she clearly gets annoyed with me (it seems to happen once every 28 days...funny). But it generally lasts a few seconds and then it passes, usually when I see the error of my ways and admit I'm stupid.

(Just kidding. Though, yeah, if I'm being honest with you, I'll tell you that really is how it usually goes.)

I don't bring this up to brag or to suggest we're some perfect couple. I bring it up because I think it may be a little weird.

Arguments are supposed to be good for a relationship, especially if they're conducted in a healthy and even loving way. It's how you work out the little differences between you.

But the thing is, we don't HAVE many differences. Hardly any at all, really. How she sees the world is essentially how I see the world. She handles the money and does a good job, and I'm fine with it. We both think we're the funniest people ever and so we spend our time laughing instead of yelling.

Which makes me wonder how that could be. No two people in the world are 100% compatible, but I guess the one smart thing we both figured out a long time ago is that those moments of incompatibility are almost never worth getting worked up over.

I don't know, maybe I'm looking at this through rose-colored glasses and we really do have more spats than I think we do. Terry is welcome to chime in on this.

It would be funny if her reaction to this post would be to contradict me and say I'm wrong, and then we got into fight about it, wouldn't it?

I don't get the anti-minivan thing

Well, I mean, I sort of do. But in the end, you have to admit that most of the reasons people resist buying and/or being seen in a minivan are vain and (forgive me for saying this) stupid.

And I say this as someone who does not currently own a minivan. But I did for many years. Many, many years. Nearly 20 years, I think.

We ran our last minivan – a Dodge Grand Caravan – virtually into the ground. It served its purpose well over the 11 years Terry drove it, transporting kids from place to place, taking us on a number of vacations, and even hauling heavy things on occasion.

I drove minivans myself for a time and never felt especially self-conscious about it. Because honestly, who exactly was I trying to impress? To whom did I ever feel the need to express myself as a rugged Cowboy Man driving a big ol' macho SUV? (Answer = Nobody)

Speaking of SUVs, we own one now in the Honda Pilot, which I like very much. But I'm not looking to go off-roading in it (and if you're a suburbanite like me, you aren't, either). SUVs are spacious and tend to drive well, but I don't feel any "cooler" or higher up on the social ladder than I did when I was driving a minivan.

So why are so many people so down on minivans? Because it brands you as a "boring" parent? Because it says you've settled down? Because it says you're responsible and don't care what people think about you?

EXCITING REVELATION: Those are all good things.

Hey, it's obviously up to you what car you buy. And it's probably none of my business if you're a shallow person who defines themselves by the vehicle they drive.

It's simply my job to point it out.

The Man Child turns 17

It is my son Jared's 17th birthday.

When he was little (like really little, maybe 2-3 years old), I used to refer to him only as "Boy." I rarely used his given name. Instead I would just say, "Boy, come here." And he would come.

Jared was the only boy child we had at the time, falling as he did after the births of Elissa and Chloe. So I could call out for The Boy at any time without the possibility of confusing someone in the way I would if I just randomly yelled "Girl, come here!"

One day I was with a friend of mine, and Jared was sitting on the other side of the room playing with toys. He was, again, really little at the time. My friend heard me call him "Boy" and said, "You had better start calling him Jared. Otherwise he's not going to know his name."

To which I replied, "Oh, come on. He knows his name."

"OK," said my friend, "call him."

Which I did. "Jared! Hey Jared! Jared, look over here!"

Jared did not react. Didn't even look up from whatever toy he was playing with.

Then I said, "Boy!" And his head immediately snapped up as he turned in my direction.

After which I switched to calling him "Jared" permanently.

Another time, not long after he had finally and successfully completed potty training, I was getting Jared dressed. I was helping him pull on a pair of tighty-whitey briefs and my hand slipped, allowing the elastic band to smack him right in the Man Region.

Without thinking I said to (4-year-old) Jared, "Oh, did I snap you in the nuts, buddy?" And Jared, who had no idea at the time what "nuts" were, just said (in a slightly teary voice), "Yeah."

I have a number of great stories about Jared because he is among the funniest people I know. Many friends and family members are shocked to hear this, because to them he's just a quiet kid who doesn't talk all that much. But I'm telling you, he's hilarious.

And now he's 17 years old and about to start his junior year in high school.

He was (and is) my first boy, and he is my fellow sufferer in Cleveland sports fandom. Together we have visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and attended countless sporting events. We do not talk about our feelings unless they have something to do with a blown coverage by the Browns or a missed shot at the buzzer by the Cavaliers.

The only three things we really talk about are cats, food and sports. Or topics that combine more than one of those elements (i.e., if there was ever a place where we could watch cats eating while simultaneously playing sports, that would be paradise).

Happy birthday, then, to my slightly-over-six-feet Man Child Whose Name Is Jared And Not Boy. As my gift to you, I promise not to snap you in the nuts today.

I have terrible handwriting and apparently always will

My 9-year-old son Jack has excellent handwriting, and I'm jealous of him for it.

Because I don't, you see. Whatever gene it is that gives you the fine motor skills necessary for good penmanship is one that I lack.

It has always been this way, and by all accounts, it always will be this way. I'm 45 years old. No one's handwriting suddenly takes a dramatic turn for the better when they hit 50.

So I'm stuck with what I have. My wife will tell you it's because I'm left-handed. She attributes many of my flaws to my left-handedness, from an inability to use tools properly to cutting myself and bleeding all over the kitchen whenever I wield a knife.

She may be right. All I know is that it takes great effort for me to write in a manner that even approaches legibility.

Here's an example. If I really need someone to understand what I'm writing, I will S-L-O-W-L-Y scratch out a note in an approximation of elementary school printing, like so:

That's about the best I can do. You can probably read it, but it's not something to which you would affix the adjective "neat" or any of its synonyms.

I take a lot of notes when I'm in meetings at work, and I do so in a fast scrawl that is indecipherable to most people (including me). It looks like this:

You can probably just barely make out this sentence, which says "This is what it looks like when I take notes in a meeting." And really, what you see here is on the more readable side as far as my meeting notes go.

Then there's my signature, which isn't very original or anything but is still marginally better than simply scrawling an "X" on legal documents:

If you're reading that letter for letter, you would probably assume my name is "Scott Toot" or "Scoh Teet" or something else borderline inappropriate.

Some people have suggested I go back to using fourth-grade cursive, which would be fine if my cursive was done at a fourth-grade level, which it most certainly isn't. Or at least it doesn't meet the level of Jack's fourth-grade cursive. It looks like this:

All of which is why I developed the ability to type at an extremely fast rate. As a society we all type pretty fast these days, given how often we're working with computer keyboards and handheld devices. But I mean, I type really fast. And loud. People stick their head in my office to ask why I'm trying to pound my keyboard into submission.

It just works for me. And best of all, no matter how haphazardly I type, you can still read it. Score one for Lefty!