Your bright blue kid-sized teapot sits in front of you, steaming with chamomile tea, a miniature cup pinched in your fingers. MMM, you close your eyes and sip. Can my friend have some? Sure I say, handing you a cup.  No grandma, its pwetend, you explain.  Oh, I get it, and hand you nothing.  Thank you.  And you slide a pretend cup to your nobody.  Does she like it?  Its a guy, grandma. And he doesn’t have tea yet.  Oh.  I wait for a pretend pour, but you pick up the small pot, pour til empty, all over the table, the floor then look at me. Hey, I say, that was real tea.  No, its real spilling, though. You explain.  And we wipe it up with a real towel or two.