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.