More proof my children are plotting my demise

A conversation between two kids, aka, my children plot my demise before a baseball game:

Evelyn throws her arms around my neck and whispers, "Mommy, I love you so much that when you and daddy die and the sun devours the earth, I'll take you with me in a box to another planet."

I say, "Oh, God, really? I mean, I love you, too. You're sweet and creepy. But mostly sweet." (Note to self: don't call your daughter creepy.)

Rags, disgusted, comes back with "Evelyn, you can't do that! You can't carry mom and dad around in a box!"

Stupidly, I breathe a sign of relief until he says, "They're too heavy. You'll have to rent a truck or put wheels on the box or something. Come here, I'll show you. Mom, can I measure you?"

My response? "I'm going into the kitchen. I'm sure there's something I'm supposed to be doing there."

Fin