Radcliffe is becoming increasingly alarmed by death, and all things related. I put him to bed, and this is the conversation that followed:

Radcliffe: ‘Mom, I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to die, either, at least until you are old and rusty.’

Me: ‘I don’t want you to die, either.’

Radcliffe: ‘Will I have to take a shower in heaven? Will God think I stink?’

Me: ‘Well, no one really has those answers yet.’

Radcliffe: ‘Hmmm. So, when I get married, is God going to take one of my ribs to make my wife?’

Me: ‘No, baby, that was just with Adam and Eve.’

Radcliffe: ‘I still don’t want you to die. But if you have to go, I guess you’ve lived a really full life.’