I can’t think of a title. After you read it, you’ll understand.

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We pull into the drive-thru.

“I’m getting a coffee. Do you want anything?”
He thinks, and then, “No.”
I order, take my coffee, and pull the car out onto the road.
“Mommy? Actually, yes. I want something.”
“What do you want? No donuts.”
“A donut.”
“No donuts.”
“A muffin?”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“How about one of those curly tree root looking things?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it sounds delicious. I circle back through the drive-thru. I am a good Mommy.

He goes on. “I think they’re French.”
“A croissant?”
“Yeah! I want a croissant.”

I make him promise to eat it tidily, to take bites of it directly from the bag.

“Do you want cheese, or plain?”
“What’s a cheese one like?”
“It has cheese in it.”
“Melted cheese?”
“I want plain.”

We’re up at the speaker again and I order him a plain croissant. I wish they sold wine here.
I hand him the bag and he pulls out the croissant.

“But I wanted the one with cheese on it!”
“You said you didn’t want one with cheese in it!”
“I don’t want one with cheese IN it; I want one with cheese ON it.”

I type “closest liquor store and/or safe shelter for kids” into my GPS.

He bites into it, not finding it so distasteful he can’t eat it.
A few minutes later his little voice comes. “Hi Mommy!”

I glance in the rear view mirror. What he hell? My previously spotless backseat looks like someone has chopped down a giant redwood.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I asked you to eat it without making a mess!”
“I did.”

I look at his hands. He waves them at me, tiny and snug and warm in a pair of tiny croissant shell mittens.

“Why are you laughing, Mommy?”

Because I have to.