It’s Wednesday evening and I’m pulling ingredients for dinner out of cabinets and drawers. I’m going to attempt chicken fried steak again, my old nemesis. I tick things off the checklist in my head.

Monkey stands at the gate to the kitchen, doing his Stewie routine.

“Mom. Mom. Mama. Mommy. Mom.”

“Yes?” I ask, distracted by the task at hand.

“Cheeto please,” he says.

“No, mama is making dinner,” I reply.

He frowns at me, dimples disappearing. His brow furrows. He walks off to entreat his father.

“Dada. Dada. Dada.”

“What can I do for you, son?” his father asks.

The request is the same.

“Cheeto please.”

“No, Mama told you, she is making dinner,” his father says.

Twice denied, Monkey plops down on the floor. He’s considering his options. He could whine, but that never does any good anyway. He could go get the Cheetos himself, but that gate is proving to be quite the deterrent.

Hm. OH! That’s right. That’s how you get the Cheetos. That never fails.

The revelation brightens his features, the dimples return. He stands up, takes a deep breath and puts on his most charming smile.

“Dada, call MawMaw.”