A recent hobby of my boys has been reading my old blog posts. Other than the occasional fight over air time (“Sam has 34 posts dedicated to him and I only have 29”), the data mining of my stories is somewhat flattering and certainly memory shaking. Stories that I had long forgotten get retold in the voices of my children. Also, it helps my viewership ratings, which is always nice.

Sounds lovely, huh? Well, until I realized that every word I type. Every story I tell. Every time that I verbally drool over Scarlett Johansson. Everything is now read by my kids.

Self-censorship, pass it on.