In Uganda nearly six years ago, I took a little boy to the hospital. He was a resident of the orphanage where I volunteered, and he had to go to the hospital fairly regularly for checkups; he’d lived with HIV since birth. He loved going to the hospital because he got to ride in a truck, and miss school, and eat special treats like a biscuit or banana… or even candy, if his chaperon was feeling generous. A few days later we were watching a sports event at his school, and he entertained himself by rattling off all the nicknames he could call me. L’s and R’s interchange in Luganda to give him many options: “Talitha, or Terither, or Tally, or Terry, or T, or mummy… can I call you mummy?”