My three-year-old, Eli, called her "Mima." When I walked into the house Friday night after being in NY for the week, he recognized the bag I was using as hers. "Is Mima coming?" he asked. I said she wasn't, and teared up. He watched me. "You have a boo boo?" Yes, I said. "It hurts me?" he asked. He tends to mix up his pronouns. "It hurts right here," I said, pointing to my heart. He kissed me where I was pointing. "I'm having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day," I said. "Should I move to Australia?" "No," he said, "you need to stay with me." I told him that was a very good idea and that I would do just that. (This is the kind of story I'd always tell my mom and she'd say something like, "he's brilliant, my grandson. Tell him Mima loves him.")