To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 6 years and 9 months old.

At 6:30, you join me in the living-room leather chair, dressed and ready for the morning. A glimpse of my computer screen as I close it makes you hungry to browse for toys, $14 in allowance money burning a hole in your pocket. I let you log in. You type “kid toys” into the search window, and then filter for “car,” “white,” and “Target.” Google shopping has clearly conducted user testing with 6-year-olds.

No purchases made, you move onto breakfast of mini-waffles, and then pack a lunch: blueberries, a strawberry jelly sandwich, half a lemon. Done. You attempt to sign-spell a word to me in the stairwell; it’s incomprehensible. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s similar to our relationship.” The answer: snuggles. We have a few and then head out the door.

On the way to school we construct persuasive arguments about whether it’s better to live close to the school or close to the playground. No consensus. I charge you up with snuggles at the bridge, and you trot on ahead into school.

Dad and I pick you up together. You burst out of the gym and show us how you can jump off a high sidewalk ledge. When you see your BF’s mom coming, you insist on waiting for Jaden, for one last burst of friend frenzy. Annie and I pull ahead, and you walk home with Dad.

It’s rainy and no one’s at the park, so we do a movie night double feature, with the Muppet Movie (my choice) and Matilda the Musical (yours). You opt for some time in Dreambox, a math app from school, but the movie tractor beam eventually draws you in. When it ends, Dad carries you like a sack of potatoes to the bath.

Warm and clean, you request my least-favorite bedtime book of all time, a graphic novel based in Minecraft world, filled with nothing but battles to the death. “I like action,” you explain to me. Gar.