You will open the fridge and try a kung-fu mind trick to lure him away from your chocolate and over to the perishables.
His bright little eyes will rest on the giant, unsliced watermelon inside.
"Dat!" he will scream with the confidence of a global leader.
"Ok!" you will say while rummaging around for an appropriate watermelon slicing knife, knowing this feat of impending manual labor is small price to pay to secure the well-being of your M&Ms.
Once the watermelon is cut into six-thousand bite-size pieces, the two-year-old will taste one and say, "I don't want this. Make me peanut butter and fluff."
You will think about waging a war over watermelon until you realize that six-thousand pieces of the fruit within arm's reach of a two-year-old on the brink of a tantrum will quickly become six-thousand tiny weapons of mass destruction. He will know this and meet your eyes for a dangerous, yet brief, game of chicken.
"Say please," you will say as you put the watermelon into a Tupperware container smugly smiling because YOU really won the battle: you're now armed with a veritable fruit arsenal for the next snack stand-off.
Once the watermelon is put away and the fluffernutter is half made, your two-year-old will profess his love of watermelon. You will ignore this.
While enjoying his marshmallow delicacy disguised as a healthy sandwich, your two-year-old will ask for milk. No, make that chocolate milk.
For a few minutes you will try to convince him that plain milk is tastier than chocolate milk. Alas, his cries of, "No it's not!" will escalate in direct proportion to your exhaustion and, dammit, Hershey will find his way to the milk.
The chocolate milk will remind him of that one time many weeks ago when he drank chocolate milk outside. He will ask to go outside. Fresh air will sound nice to you so you'll go.
Outside, he'll notice the sandbox and ditch the chocolate milk.
Once 85% of the sand is outside the sandbox, he will notice his hands are dirty.
"Can you please turn on the hose so I can wash my hands, Mommy?" he will ask in his sweetest voice.
Proud of his impeccable hygiene, you will comply and in the blink of an eye your two-year-old will stage a solo coup, usurp the nozzle, and soak you both.
As you towel him off and decide the hose episode definitely counts as your shower, you will notice that you are a tad hungry yourself and abscond to the kitchen for a granola bar.
Despite your ninja moves, your two-year-old will sense you are eating and he is not and catch you red-handed.
"What's dat?" he will ask, the cool excitement of a CIA agent holding an incriminating folder of evidence lacing his high-pitched voice.
You will contemplate eating the evidence before turning to face him but his show of power back at the hose has made you feel brazen and you know he will smell oats and chocolate on your breath should you lie so you turn and simply say, "It's a granola bar."
"Ohhhhhhh," he will say back slowly as he assesses the deliciousness of the food you are not sharing. Once he's decided it's high on his delicious scale he will ask abruptly, "can I have a bite?"
"No," you'll say.
"Why?" he'll ask.
"It's mine," you'll say and add, lest he think Mommy is not a good sharer, "and I need the energy in these calories to take care of you."
The tantrum held at bay by little more than hope and marshmallow fluff will be held no more.
As he flails and wails begging for your granola bar you will rack your brain for one, JUST ONE, diversionary tactic. It will arrive on the wings of a dove.
"The ducks!!!" you'll scream triumphantly recalling the success of last week's duck-feeding session, "let's go feed them!"
He will stop mid-cry to assess your seriousness. Should you add "tomorrow" or "later" to your previous statement he is prepared to start right back where he left off.
You will not say either because you mean it and to show just how serious you are you will add, "I'll get some bread."
You will run to your room for a dry shirt and upon your return, find your two-year-old eating the bread.
"That's for the ducks, you silly goose!" you will say with 10 times more levity than you feel.
"But I want it," he'll shoot back and only after a five-minute conversation during which you try to explain the following equation:
Bread For Ducks + Two-Year-Old Eating This Bread = No Bread For Ducks & No Trip To Duck Pond
does he put the bread down.
"I have an idea!" you'll shout hoping to re-inflate his excitement, "run and put the bread in mommy's [impossibly large with contents capable of keeping us alive for two weeks should we get lost in the woods] diaper bag and then we'll go!"
Now, this trip to the other room will take far too long and while you will undoubtedly enjoy those 45 seconds of staring silently at the wall, you will begin to wonder what's happening and embark on a search and recover mission.
You will find him in the living room surrounded by many of your bag's contents and rifling through those remaining within.
"What are you doing?" you'll ask.
And he will say, "I'm looking for a snack. I want a snack."
And we all know what happens if you give a two-year-old a snack.