Yesterday I took the sprouts to their first Floridian play date. One of the camp mothers in their class had invited us to their home to splash at their community “sprayground,” to swim, then off to their house. It was a twenty-minute drive up to their home in Boynton Beach, and on our way to “Eavie’s” house (whose name I later learned was actually Evie, as in “every day,” but without the “r”), Lucas asked me, what I like to call, a “sponge question.”

“So, mama,” he asked, “so, what’s this girl’s story?”

Unprepared for such an adult turn of phrase, I choked back a laugh as if soda took a wrong turn down a pipe, coughing out a, “what do you mean ‘what’s her story’?”

“You know. What’s the story with this one?”

“Uh, what’s your story, Lucas?”

“You know. We moved from Texas to Florida, where I can play with trains in a garage playroom.” How much do I love this kid?

“That’s right, that is part of your story. So, you’ll have to ask Evie what her story is when we get there, okay?”

“Well, are we there yet?”

And so it goes.