I am on a plane at Charles-de-Gaulle airport in Paris, returning from just over a week in perhaps my favorite cities on the planet. As I usually do while on the road, I revisit a Sundays are for Sebastian. This one comes from two years ago, when Seba was eleven.

Sebastian is my eleven-year-old and he says some of the funniest things–we have no idea where he gets his material since his mother and I are rather boring, serious people.

I was cleaning up dishes in the sink when Sebastian came bouncing down the stairs. I had told him countless times before that he needed to rinse out his dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

A cereal bowl with practically baked-on Rice Krispies was causing me an extra five minutes of elbow grease.

Me: “Seba how many times have I told you to rinse your dishes?!”

Seba: “I dunno. A lot?”

Me: “I just spent five minutes cleaning your bowl from this morning. If it happens again, no cereal for a month!”

He sat down at the table to do some homework as I went off to my office for a little work myself. Moments later, my wife came downstairs.

My wife (as she entered the kitchen): “Thanks for doing the dishes.”

Seba: “Me?!”

My wife chuckled. My wife again (a little louder to carry to the office): “Thanks for doing the dishes!”

Seba: “You’re welcome!”

My wife: “ Huh? You did the dishes?”

Me (from the office): “No, I did.”

My wife turned to Seba, somewhat incredulous at his audacity.

Seba: “Well, if no one else was going to take credit….”