An email conversation with my sister, after she saw yesterday’s plant killer post.

HER: That was a sad little succulent. Try sansiviera, or mother-in-law’s tongue. Also cool looking, can’t kill – I had one in college when I had the attic room, never watered it – still alive nine months later. I have several now that I’ve had for years.

ME: I’ll send you a picture of the one I killed.

HER: That’s really not possible.

ME: Want to bet??

Day four of Spring Break, and the natives are getting restless. And by natives, I mean a single nine-year-old boy obsessed with Minecraft.

ME: Want do you want to do today?

SAM: Play Minecraft.

ME: I meant something non-electronic. Hey, I know! Let’s go to the beach! We can bring your kite. It’s nice and windy out.

SAM: No. That’s boring.

ME: Well, what do you want to do?

SAM: I want to play Minecraft.

ME: The playground? The zoo? The turtle rescue center?

SAM: Minecraft. Minecraft. Minecraft.

In a fit of pique, I’ve declared a Minecraft-free day. This did not go over well.

ME: Do you want to bake a pie with me?

SAM: No.

ME: Why not? You love it when we bake together.

SAM: I’m annoyed at you. Because you won’t let me play Minecraft. Which is how I relax. And when I don’t get to relax, I get annoyed.

Sigh.

I had to bake alone. But my strawberry-rhubarb pie does look delicous.

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.

ME: Happy Birthday! How does it feel to be 43, old man?

GEORGE: I’m 44.

ME: [GASP] Are you serious? You’re 44??

GEORGE: Yes.

ME: I had no idea. Jesus. I thought 43 sounded old. But 44 is even worse.

GEORGE: Thanks.

ME: So you’re now officially in your mid-forties. And have you realized you’re closer to SIXTY than you are to TWENTY?

GEORGE: This is a fun conversation. We should do this more often.

Sam: Mom? How do you spell EVIL?

Me: E – V – …

Sam: What?

Me: E – V – . . .

Sam: WHAT?

Me: E. V. I –

Sam: I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!

Me: S. R. T. Q.

Sam: Really?

Me. Yes.

George: How’s that martini I made for you?

Me: Great.

George: That’s not very emphatic.

Me: Do you want me to peel off my shirt and throw it at you?

George: Ok.

Me: BOOM.

George: You just threw your jacket at me.

Me: So?

George: I was hoping for an under layer.

Me: What can I say? I’m modest. And the martini is good, but it’s not under layer good.

SAM: I don’t like my haircut.

ME: Yeah, um, the next time your father offers to cut it for you, tell him I already made an appointment for you with my stylist.

SAM: Why?

ME: Just trust me on this one.

SAM: OK.

ME: But don’t tell Dad I told you to say that. That’s between you and me.

SAM: Got it.

Five minutes later . . .

GEORGE: Did you tell Sam that the next time I tried to cut his hair, that he should tell me that you made an appointment for him with your stylist?

ME: Wow. Worst kept secret ever.

GEORGE: His hair doesn’t look that bad.

ME: He looks like a convict. All he needs are some tats and a gang affiliation.

GEORGE: Oh, well. It will grow out.

ME: And we’ll just have to avoid photographing him until it does.

SAM: I need one of those big boxes that are bathrooms.

ME: Huh?

SAM: You know. The big boxes. With the toilets inside.

ME: Are you talking about port-o-potties?

SAM: Yes. I need one of those.

ME: Why on earth would you need a port-o-potty?

SAM: For my time machine.

ME: You want to invent a time travelling port-o-potty?

SAM: Yes.

ME: The mind boggles.

SAM: What does that mean? Does it mean you’re going to get me a port-o-potty?

ME: No. It certainly does not mean that.

SAM: But I need a port-o-potty.

ME: How would you feel about going to full day camp next week?

On Sam’s last day of second grade, I made the mistake of getting weepy in front of him. He found this highly entertaining, and has been trying to get a repeat performance ever since.

SAM: Mom, in twenty years, I’ll be a grown up. And I won’t live with you anymore.

ME: Yes, I know.

SAM: Does that make you so sad?

ME: No, I’m good.

SAM: Are you going to start crying?

ME: No.

And then a little later . . .

SAM: I’m going to be starting third grade next year.

ME: Yes.

SAM: And then pretty soon, I’ll be in middle school. And then high school. And then I’ll go away to college.

ME: Do you have a point in there somewhere?

SAM: I wanted to see if I could make you cry again.

ME: Thanks, I’m really enjoying this.

And yet later . . .

SAM: I was a cute baby, wasn’t I?

ME: The cutest baby ever.

SAM: But I’m not a baby anymore. And I’ll never be a baby again. I’ll just get older and older. Doesn’t that make you so sad?

ME: Sam, seriously! Stop trying to make me cry! Especially when I’m driving!

Sam: Dad, I want to build an underground fort.

George: That sounds cool.

Sam: Yes. It will be awesome. I think it should have at least three rooms.

George: That sounds big. How are you going to build it?

Sam: Well, basically you need to get out there with a shovel and start digging.

Me: Ha ha ha! That sounds like a plan!

George: Maybe you should design it first. Draw up a blueprint.

Sam: Good thinking.