The car. Hot Firefighter Husband and I are dreaming aloud about retirement in front of the younger kids. We speak of selling the house.
“YOU’RE SELLING THE HOUSE?” screeches the Pterodactyl.
“No!” I assure him. “Not until you’ve all moved out. Then we’ll sell it and go live in a yurt.”
Pterodactyl: What’s a yurt?
Tyrant: We’re moving?
Me: No, honey. Or maybe just a tiny house.
Husband: We’ll be living on Fifth Avenue in a rented apartment.
Me: I’ll be in the yurt.
Husband: And what? I’ll come visit you?
Me: I guess. I’ll just live with Buddy.
Pterodactyl: Oh, no. I knew this would happen. (Calls his sister on his cell phone) Mom and Dad are getting divorced.
Tyrant (panicked): You’re getting a divorce?
Me: NO. Please stop that, son. We are not getting divorced.
Husband: Why do you want to live in the woods?
Pterodactyl (whispering into phone): They don’t want to live together after we’re gone.
Me: A yurt doesn’t have to be in the woods. Just a little piece of land. And it can be a tiny house.
Husband: What about a tiny condo right by the beach?
Tyrant: I’ll live with you, Mommy.
Me: Thank you, honey. Where would I put my garden?
Husband: In pots.
Me: I’m not moving to New York City.
Pterodactyl: Can we get ice cream today?
Me and Husband: NO.
We both settle quietly into the daunting realization that by the time the Tyrant graduates high school, he’ll be 63 and I’ll be 61. Also, the Pterodactyl is probably never leaving home.
Me: What should we do about dinner?