Comfort from a 3-year-old

This afternoon has been horrid-- one of the worst.  Both boys screaming, throwning tantrums, misbehaving, disobeying, you name it.  Bedtime was one of the worst on record.  Once the boys settled down, I went into Drake's room to finish our usual routine (that we couldn't do when he was throwing a fit).  As we were lying in his bed, the following conversation took place.

Drake: Is Grandma Maria sick?
Me: Yes, she is.
D: Is she going to the hospital?
M: No.  She's staying at home.
D: They take good care of you at the hospital.
M: Yes, they do.  She has hospice nurses taking good care of her at home.
D: What's a hospice nurse?
M: It's like a nurse at the hospital, but they take care of you in your own home.
D: Is Meghan a hospice nurse?
M: No, honey, she isn't.

(long pause)

D: I picked my boogers and wiped them on the wall.

(lots and lots of laughing)

D: There was a hamburger, and the hand went like this, and the lightning went kreeeeeekowww.  And the hamburger came to life.  And it had feet.  And it started playing the guitar.  That's silly.

So, there you have it.  When depressed about a dying relative, talk to a three-year-old.  Mine prefers to cheer me up by telling me about his nose goblins and retelling a scene from Better Off Dead.