I heard my son tell his cousin last night on the phone, “Just a few more school days for me and then I’ll be in California.” The concept of time remains elusive. A few more days, a few more weeks, two more months—who’s counting? I guess he is. Sort of.

They are working on some sort of scheme that involves multiple Speed Racer tracks. They talk every few days on the phone, comparing, competing, “I have 75 Speed Racer cars,” my nephew says. And in a way that betrays his innocence, my son replies, “I have 3,” as though 3 somehow trumps 75. Then to my surprise, my nephew admits, “I have 4, but that’s still more than you, so that means I’m older, right?” (he’s not) and then they are on to the logistics of transporting a five foot track with side by side loop de loops across the country in one piece.

“Tell your mom to get a box,” my world weary and street smart nephew advises when my son declares the impossibility.

I love to eavesdrop on these conversations. Little boys trading ideas, working things out. Endless plans, few of which will ever come to pass.

Last summer it was The Sleepover, which lasted all of ten minutes before they insisted on separate rooms and closed doors.

I wonder what it will be this summer?