Wake up with the sun. Or, preferably, two hours before any sign of it.

Request fruit snacks. Wait, I don’t think Mom heard me—I asked for fruit snacks. Scream and beat pantry door for several minutes. I wonder why there’s a lock on this door anyway? (Remind myself to repeat this tomorrow, even though I’ve never actually gotten fruit snacks for breakfast.)

Ask for a TV show while Mom gets dressed. (Didn’t she wear that yesterday?) Act happy when she puts on what I wanted, but then immediately demand something different as soon as Mom has resumed putting on her mascara. (Repeat until Mom says, “Watch this or I’ll turn the TV off.”)

Now it’s time for a puzzle. I know—Mom says we have to go somewhere, but if she would just listen to me, I swear we can be done with this puzzle before we have to leave.

Mom wants to know what I’m supposed to say after I tell her, “I want puzzle.” She might mean that one word—please, or something—or maybe she just didn’t hear me the first time. I’ll try shouting. That’s what comes after.

“I WANT PUZZLE!”

Nope, she did mean “please.”

OK, good—Mom’s gotten the puzzle down. I still have time to quickly throw all of the pieces behind the couch.

Mom’s looking for my other shoe. Should I tell her I put it in the cupboard yesterday? Nah.

It’s finally time to go. Now is the perfect time to poop.

OK, it’s really finally time to go. I think I’ll get into my car seat without throwing a tantrum about leaving the book I really wanted upstairs. Nope, never mind—I’ll just throw the tantrum. This way, I can let her know I specifically needed the Winnie the Pooh book about learning to tell time. (I’m positive she’ll easily decipher this from my stiffening legs, shrill cries, and whimpers about “clocks.”)

We’ve arrived, and I only screamed a few times in the car (because I dropped my Winnie the Pooh book).

When she gets me out I’m going to hold Mom’s hand and walk gracefully with her through the parking lot. I’ll only try to sit down once. Maybe twice. Just to mix it up, I’ll cry because I want to sit in the cart instead of how I usually cry because I want to walk.

Well, that went well. Mom’s sweating a lot and her lips look tight, but all in all, I think that was a particularly good shopping trip. Time to go home for a snack.

Mom wants to workout a little while I have a snack. I think I’ll help her. I really like to do yoga poses with her, and I think I help her practice that deep yoga breathing when I throw my snack cup by her mat and remind her I wanted fruit snacks and not these crackers.

Mom says she’s done trying to workout so we can either do puzzles or books. I think I’ll pick puzzles—after she finds those missing pieces. Then, once it’s ready to be put back together, I’ll change my mind and say books. I wonder how many times in a row Mom will read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom?

Hey, Mom looks kind of upset. Maybe I should crawl in her lap and smoosh my face into hers and give her a big kiss.

Well, that seemed to help—except I think I squeezed a tear out of her. But she’s telling me how much she loves me and what a good girl I am, so that’s good news.

Hang on—if I’m such a good girl, I wonder if I should ask for some fruit snacks?

The post A Toddler’s Version of a Typical Morning With Mom. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.