Most mornings in Itaim Bibi start the same way for us. We all crowd around the kitchen island, Emilia points at the bananas like she discovered fruit for the first time, and my husband tries to drink coffee while protecting his shirt from flying oatmeal.

Then we walk him to work, and I’m reminded that life with a toddler is a moving target. You plan, you pivot, you laugh, then you pivot again.

If you’re in the thick of it too, here are the moments that make me laugh the hardest, even when I’m tired and there’s quinoa in my hair.

1. The snack negotiations that would impress a diplomat

Toddlers don’t ask for snacks. They campaign for them.

Emilia can spot the supermarket from a block away and starts chanting “crack-er, crack-er,” like we’re at a rally. I’ll say no because dinner is in 40 minutes.

She’ll counter with “two,” then offer to share with me, then dramatically hug the box. Somehow I end up paying for crackers and a single tomato that she insisted on carrying like a trophy.

Here’s the funny thing. Half the time she just wants to hold the snack, not eat it. The power of possession is the snack.

2. The wardrobe changes that rival a fashion week

We leave the house in a cute linen romper. Two blocks later, Emilia is wearing only a diaper, my hair clip, and one sandal.

Then she demands the romper again with an urgency that suggests a red carpet is waiting in the lobby. At home, laundry is a carousel of tiny clothes worn for seven minutes each.

I used to roll my eyes at capsule wardrobes. Now I live for them. One good pair of toddler leggings beats five fussy outfits that trigger meltdowns on the changing table. My rule: clothes should feel like a hug, not a negotiation.

3. The mysterious obsession with the “wrong” object

We have delightful toys. Stacking cups. A plush llama. Books with textures. And yet the objects that win every time are the remote, my wallet, and a wooden spoon.

When we visit grandparents in Santiago, Emilia pretty much ignores the entire toy basket and adopts my mother-in-law’s tupperware as her life’s work.

Psychologist Alison Gopnik once said that “babies and young children are like the research and development division of the human species,” while adults are production and marketing.

They’re wired to explore, test, and learn, which explains the magnetic pull of off-limits objects that do interesting things. I remind myself of that when she’s dismantling a pack of tissues one square at a time. Source. ted.com

4. The meal you cooked… for the floor

I’ll spend the afternoon cooking a simple veggie quinoa with fresh herbs. It smells amazing, looks bright and happy, and I feel smug about feeding my family well.

Emilia takes a ceremonial bite, contemplates life, and then uses her spoon like a catapult. The quinoa lands everywhere, including the plants.

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Ten minutes later she’s devouring plain cucumbers like they’re candy.

I’ve learned to serve a “sure-thing” food next to the new one, and to keep portions tiny. The floor appreciates a light dusting.

5. The naps that follow only after you give up

There is a special rhythm to toddler sleep. She’s rubbing her eyes, so you dim the room and start the bedtime song. She laughs and does a backbend.

You walk, rock, sway, lower, pick back up. You give up, sit on the sofa, and finally she nods off on your chest in thirty seconds flat.

In those moments, I let my to-do list go. Nothing is as soft as a toddler asleep, warm and heavy and somehow holding your neckline like a life raft. I whisper to myself, this won’t last forever, and take a long breath.

6. The “bye” that means absolutely nothing

We say chao to the park. Chao to the elevator. Chao to her toothbrush. It’s our daily comedy routine. Sometimes “chao” means we are leaving, and sometimes it means we will stand at the door for five more minutes while Emilia waves to a shoe.

Other parents nod knowingly, arms full of toddlers who are very busy saying heartfelt goodbyes to inanimate objects.

I used to rush this part. Now I build in an extra five minutes for long goodbyes. It turns a chaotic exit into a small ceremony, which, honestly, makes me less frazzled too.

7. The toddler logic that is relentless and kind of brilliant

You say “we’re out of bananas.” Your toddler opens the empty fruit bowl and checks again, just to be sure.

You say “we’re going to the supermarket later.” She brings you your keys, climbs into the stroller, and points to the door like a tiny project manager.

This logic is funny because it’s clear. Emilia is the queen of cause and effect, and she loves to test it with her whole body.

The American Academy of Pediatrics even calls play “brain building,” which is a helpful reminder when my living room looks like a lab. “Play is not frivolous, it enhances brain structure and function,” as their policy statement puts it.

8. The sudden independence… followed by instant clinginess

One moment Emilia is saying “I do it” and grabbing the spoon

. The very next moment she wants both arms, all the cuddles, and specific kisses delivered to specific cheeks. I used to get whiplash.

Now I see it for what it is, an adorable training ground for life. She’s practicing being separate and connected, often in the same minute.

On our weekday routine, we hand off at seven. Lara heads home, and we start the dinner bath story flow. That’s when independence and clinginess dance together.

She climbs into her chair on her own, then wants me to hold the cup while she drinks. I find it funny and tender, like watching someone rehearse courage.

9. The chaos that turns into the story you’ll tell forever

Comedian Jerry Seinfeld famously said, “A two-year-old is kind of like having a blender, but you don’t have a top for it.” It plays in my head whenever Emilia sprints toward a puddle in the park, or empties a bag of cotton pads one by one with great focus.

The messes are real, and the punchlines write themselves.

Some of our best family laughs come right after the biggest spills. During a recent trip to Santiago, Emilia knocked over a cup of fresh juice at lunch, gasped dramatically, and then announced “agua dance” while she stamped her little feet in the sticky mess.

We were tired. We were in public. And we laughed until we cried.

If you’re reading this between toddler tornadoes, here’s what helps me keep the humor alive.

I keep expectations low and rituals tight. Our weekdays are scheduled to the minute because both of us work full time, and that structure keeps everyone calm enough to be silly.

Mornings start together. Afternoons are for work while Emilia plays with the neighbor kids. Evenings are our family dinner, then bath, then stories. While one of us cleans up, the other does bedtime. Then we get a tiny pocket of time to be adults again.

I let Emilia’s curiosity lead where possible. On supermarket runs, I give her a “special helper” job, like picking the reddest tomatoes or placing parsley gently in the basket. She beams.

When she insists on carrying a lemon home like it’s gold, I let her. That lemon kept her engaged for twenty minutes while I stirred the pot.

I try to narrate the chaos with a smile. “You’re offering the spoon to the floor again,” I’ll say, and she giggles.

The playfulness resets me. And when I can’t find the joke, I borrow one from people who have studied children for decades.

Gopnik’s reminder that toddlers are our R&D department makes sense of the endless experiments with water, dirt, and gravity.

The AAP’s line about play building the brain is the nudge I need to sit down and stack blocks instead of wiping the counter again.

Do I still want a cat? Yes. Will I wait until we can give a pet the life it deserves? Also yes. For now, I live with a lovable creature who hides tupperware lids behind the sofa and tries to drink from my water bottle while maintaining intense eye contact. It’s enough.

Here’s my honest take after a year of toddler life

The laughter isn’t a bonus, it’s the glue. When I treat the hard parts like the opening act to a good story, I relax.

When we enlist grandparents in Santiago for a date night, I come home with more patience. When I cook a fresh meal and it ends up as modern art on the floor, I take a photo, send it to my girlfriends, and make avocado toast.

If you’re exhausted, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re probably doing it right. The routine, the clean-up tag team, the date nights we protect as if they’re sacred, all of it makes room for these wild, hilarious moments.

And one day, I know I’ll miss the blender without a lid.

So I’m writing this as a reminder to both of us. Let’s laugh. Let’s pick our battles. Let’s keep the rituals that make our homes feel safe and predictable, so we can say yes to puddles, yes to lemons in handbags, and yes to dancing in spilled juice.

Because these are the stories our kids will hear when they’re grown, and the ones we’ll retell with happy tears and sticky smiles.

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