Saturday afternoon, we were driving through downtown and passed the Cleveland Clinic. Austin pointed out the window and asked, “What this is, Mommy?” (Reminding me yet again of Yoda, with his inverted speech.) I explained that it was another hospital, like the hospital that he goes to.

He then asked why he needed to go to the hospital and I, never one for hiding the cold hard truth, said, “Because you had cancer,” carefully using the past tense. He scrunched up his little face and said, “Stupid. No Auty like it.”

Mark and I heartily agreed that we didn’t like it either and then Braedan piped in with, “I like it, because then I get to ride on the elevator.”

“Oh Braedan, honey,” I started to explain, seizing the teachable moment. “That could hurt Austin’s feelings. It makes it sound like . . . ” but Austin interrupted, taking matters into his own hands, putting the issue of who gets to go to the hospital to rest once and for all:

“No Bay-den get to go hop-a-bul. Autin all done.”