Mom, are dinner and supper the same thing?
When will I turn six?
First it has to be Thanksgiving and Christmas and my birthday—we have to turn the calendar page four times, and then it’s almost your birthday.
How do you spell house?
I don’t want you to leave on an airplane.
His eyes tear up and he’s got them wide open, looking up and off to the side.
Why? You think nobody will help you get the milk?
Grandma will help you. You’ll wake up here and there won’t be even one daycare kid and Grandma will fix you breakfast, and you’ll get on the bus and then Grandma will pick you up in her red car and you can play at her house, and she’ll make you snacks and dinner, and you can jump on the trampoline and then she’ll bring you home and Grandma and Grandpa will stay here all night with you.
What if you aren't here for my birthday?
Oh, I’ll be back before your birthday. Before Christmas even. I’m only going to be gone for one week.
What if you die?
His question hits me like a slug in the chest. I’m not going to die; of course I’m not going to die—but can I make a promise like that to a five year old boy? What if I do die—his last memory of me will be this lie!
I’m not going to die.
What if someone shoots your airplane out of the sky?
Nobody shoots airplanes out of the sky.
He just looks at me. Even he knows this is a lie.
They don’t shoot airplanes with people on them out of the sky—they just shoot other airplanes that shoot them—airplanes with guns.
What if they can’t find any airplanes with guns and so they shoot your airplane instead?
Nobody is going to shoot my airplane.
M thinks I should have told him we’re more likely to sink in the boat than get shot out of the sky.
Can't he just throw a tantrum as I'm on my way out the door? Scream and cry and cling to my leg so we have to peel him off, one fingertip at a time? How come I can't have kids like that?