I’ve been home for four days with the Hell Flu. I’m not sure if that’s the correct medical term, but it should be.

The good news? At least I didn’t have to go camping with George and Sam. Because if there’s one thing worse than the Hell Flu, it’s camping.

In fact, I hate camping so much, that when George and I married, I made him take an extra vow:

I will never, ever make you go camping.

(He also promised he’d never make me move to Texas, a vow which he promptly broke. I’m holding firm on the camping. The closest I’ve come is a cabin at Disney World’s Fort Wilderness, which George claims didn’t count because it had air conditioning, a television and daily housekeeping service.)

They arrived back home yesterday, tired and filthy, but enthusiastic about their trip. They were full of stories about freezing night temperatures and rustic accommodations that did nothing to change my mind about my camping ban.

Sam had to take two showers and a bath before he managed to scrape off all the layers of dirt he’d accumulated on this adventure. When he was finally clean, he curled up on the couch with me.

ME: I missed you!

SAM: You did?

ME: Yes. Didn’t you miss me?

SAM: Hmmm. Actually, I didn’t really think about you. I was pretty busy.

ME: (sadly) Oh.

SAM: Except for when you called. I thought about you then.

ME: That’s nice. You know you don’t have to be quite so honest all the time. Learning how to lie to me might come in handy for your teenage years.

Speaking of going off-diet . . .

Chick-Fil-A Chicken Sandwich + Chocolate Shake = Best Hangover Cure Ever

Don’t judge me. I was celebrating the birth of our nation.

Lesson learned today:

When attempting to follow the whole depressing low-carb/paleo diet from hell, it’s counterproductive to make homemade corn bread.

But hot damn, was it good.

Also, it led to the following conversation:

ME: Sam, do you want to try some cornbread?

SAM: No.

ME: Why not? It’s delicious.

SAM: I hate corn bread.

ME: No, you don’t. You love it.

SAM: I don’t.

ME: Yes, you do. Here, try some.

At this point, I temptingly hold out a slice of cornbread, still warm from the oven, slathered with butter. Sam reacts as though I am about to start waterboarding him.

SAM: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

ME: Good grief, stop caterwauling. Do you know the outside of a corn dog? The yummy breaded part?

SAM: [suspiciously] Yes?

ME: THAT’S CORN BREAD.

SAM: Oh. Let me try. Yum! Can I have some more?

ME: No.