Yesterday afternoon in the course of a fifteen minute car ride with my two oldest sons, the conversation covered the following topics:
Whether the world’s largest monster truck has ten foot tall tires or fifteen foot tall tires.
What exactly is inside the middle of the earth and how we can be sure.
Which of the Super Friends has heat ray vision.
How we used to know someone who was a super talented burp-talker, and how come we never see that kid anymore?
Which position each of them would try out for on which major league baseball teams and how many Hummers they could buy with their starting salaries.
How to make the fish you are holding up in a photograph look larger than it really is by holding it in front of you, closer to the camera.
How to make the fins of the above-mentioned photo fish stand up most impressively, by holding it diagonally.
Who could eat more cheeseburgers in a single sitting, the dog or their father.
Since I also have daughters, conversations like this one in my household are usually broken up a bit by discussions of how to wear one’s hair, which flowers might look pretty in the bathroom, and how cute the baby is.
My sweet sister has five sons. My dear friend Rachel has four sons. And I have four sons too. But yesterday it occurred to me that saying that is not at all the same thing. Not even close.