Yesterday Lydia and I, with Brynja in tow, had our monthly lunch in town, and Olof and the middle kids–I’m having such a hard time learning not to call Tage and Petra “the little kids”–tagged along for a lunch of their own. Driving there, Olof and I were trying to agree on a place and time to meet back up, and he suggested a parking lot in the center of town about an hour after I was to drop them off.

“Lydia’s going to want to do some shopping,” I reminded him. “She has her allowance.”

He asked where I suggested meeting up, then, so I called back to Lydia, who sits in the far back of the car. “Where do you want to shop?”

“What? When?” she asked, a strange quality to her voice.

“Today, Lydia,” I answered, my voice all exaggerated patience. “We’re in the car on our way to town right now, aren’t we?”

Now her tone was pure panic. “WHAT?! I’m getting a shot today?”

“No, SHOP. We’re going shopping. Where do you want to shop?”

“Oh,” she said, relaxing into giddy giggles of relief that lasted for at least a mile or two. “I thought you were taking me for a shot.”