Children of crime writers aren't normal

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DH and I took the troops to the Arboretum this weekend - my little adventurers love trekking through the woods with "rations" (as Red calls them) in their packs and walking sticks in hand. I, of course, carried a latte.

As we were passing a particularly wooded area (or as Mystery Man calls it "the Deep, DARK, WOOOODDDS!"), the following conversation ensued,

DH: I've matured so much as a father
Me: Really?
DH: Yes, because in the past, I'd have told a scary story about what lurked in these woods. But now, I know better.
Kids in unison: AWWWW, why won't you tell us a story!
DH: Because it's better to have your last moments be happy and just go quickly if you're gonna get eaten.
Boop: I'm gonna live a long time, longer than you, probably even longer than Red.
DH: Why?
Boop: Because I'm younger.
Red: Yeah, but someone could take an ax...
DH: STOP!

** this is the little lake where we stopped to let Red sketch and Boop and Mystery Man fight over sitting on a rock.