I know what I want

My Mama can be so clueless sometimes. I mean, I don't think I'm being unclear as to what I want when I grab her hand, drag her over to the gate to the kitchen, and very clearly say "cookie". Or when I pull her to the other gate, the one that leads to outside, and say "outside" or "chalk" or "walk", you'd think she'd be able to figure it out. Sometimes, I think she's even laughing at me. Like I'm being cute. I know how and when to be cute. When I smear yogurt or sweet potato or avocado all over my hair and face and shirt, I know just how cute to be to make her not mad at me. 

See? How could you ever be mad at sweet little me?

But when I want something, when I REALLY want something, I expect to get it. And sometimes, she complies, even though she gets that tone in her voice that seems to say "are you sure you want that?" Like when I wanted to read the "British Columbia" cookbook for a bedtime story. She seemed to think it was a little weird, but she complied, and did a fine job making up a story to go with the pictures. What can I say, I like pictures of cooked fish. 

I am a purveyor of much fine literature, though I think George R.R. Martin could use more tractors in his stories.

But why can't I have a cookie whenever I want? Or go outside and play with Mama when she's leaving for work? Isn't playing with me or giving me what I want more important than anything else they could be doing?  Sigh. Maybe someday my parents will understand. It's so hard being me.