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Last month, Julia and I were in the carpool line to drop the boys off at preschool. As we were waiting to drop them off, the firstborn, who is 4 and a half years old, was reviewing the new school rules out loud.

“‘Be kind to others.’ That’s the Yellow Rule, but some people call it the Golden one,” he announced.

“That’s right buddy,” I said proudly.

Not wanting to waste a teachable moment, I asked him, “Do you know who made up the Golden Rule?”

“Ummmm…no,” he replied.

I spoke slowly and deliberately, “His name is Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ?!” he said quickly, furrowing his eyebrows. His tone was thick with playful surprise, pretending as though he’d never heard that name before. Then his face contorted in thought as he looked away, apparently in deep thought.

“Daddy, our peanut butter and jelly sandwich has Christ on it,” he observed.

For a moment, I thought, “huh?” Then I realized what he meant.

“That’s crust buddy. Your peanut butter and jelly sandwich has crust.”

Our dog, Sandy, turned eight years old last week. She is one of the best, most obedient, well-trained dogs I have ever known. But despite all her great qualities, our sweet Sandy has an addiction.

Many times, Julia and I have returned home to discover trash bags torn open and scattered across the floor, looking as though wild animals have attacked. Sharing details would turn your stomach. The dog has a sickness. We’ll leave it at that. She just can’t help herself. Her little garbage-loving Mr. Hyde comes out and does awful things.

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