My son suggested going into Fantasyland on his own, crying, claiming to be lost. He would say, “I want my mommy” over and over. Eventually a nice family would come to help him. And then he would say, “Never mind, I found her.” He would point up to Grimhilde the evil robot, peering through the curtains. “That is my mommy,” he would say, with the flat affect of a child in a horror movie. And then he would call up to her. “I’ve brought you another family, Mommy,” he would say. As I say, he was nine at the time. I was extremely proud of him for thinking of this and I still am. However, I pointed
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