Bedtime has become a fiasco. Mommy, something hurts. (The mysterious unspecified “something.” If I pretend to be sick, maybe she won’t make me stay in my room by myself.) Mommy, come check on me. Mommy, be in my room while I drink water. You be a mama turtle and I’ll be a baby cat (all the better to outrun the mama turtle). Mommy, leave the door open a big bit.
And tonight: “Mommy, what shall I do?”
Try to distract me with an impressive display of grammar, will you? No dice, kid. GO TO SLEEP!