This weekend I am back in France, riding my bike through the Dordogne Valley, starting in Saint Émilion. As I normally do while on the road, I revisit a Sundays are for Sebastian. This one comes from four years ago when Seba was ten.
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.
The boys overheard their mother and me discussing a possible promotion for which she was being considered.
Sebastian: “Wait, does this mean we are moving again? (We moved to Texas three years prior for a better position for my wife.)
Me: “Huh? First of all, you were not involved in this conversation, so it is rather rude for you to interject a question like that. Second, what makes you think we are moving?”
Nathan (who was watching the news and the senate majority leader was on the screen): “Wait, we are moving again? Why? Please, just not to Kentucky.”
My wife: “Who said anything about moving? We are not moving at all, let alone to Kentucky!”
Sebastian: “I hear they have really good fried chicken in Kentucky.”
the drunken cyclist 