One sentence shy of Nihilism

Here's a snippet of convo with Sam & Carter as we drove down the Airport Parkway today:

Carter: When I get bigger, I'm going to a brick-filled school.
Angie: Brick-filled? Do you mean a school made out of bricks?
Carter: No, brick-filled. I just saw it.
Angie: Ohhh, Brookfield High School. That's right: and Sam will be going there, too! So you're going to go to different schools when you're little boys and then the same school when you're big boys. When you're about 13.
Sam: When Carter is 13 and a big boy, will he still come to my house to play?
Angie: Of course! You'll see each other all the time, and you'll probably do the same thing you did this morning (video games and plenty of eating). You two will be friends forever.
Sam: And then we'll get old-old-old-old-OHWALD and die.
Carter: Ya. Everything dies. Even trees die.
Sam: There's two kinds of "old": Anabel getting old and old people getting died.
Angie: True, but there's lots of time in the middle. You won't be old for a very long time.
Sam: You are alive on the earth for a long time, but then you're dead for a REALLY long time.
Carter: Ya. Dead on the earth.
Angie: But for now we'll just make plans for kindergarten, okay?
Sam: Ya. First we'll turn school-age.

Shades away from the a question I thought I might one day field from a scraggly haired, sloppily dressed, angling for a piercing, taller-than-me 10th grader: "What difference does school make if I'm just gonna grow old and die?" Not the conversation I imagined having with two sippy cup drinking, Spidey jacket wearing, booster seated, almost 4 year old boys.