The smallest minion has entered his villain era.

Fueled by string cheese, wild ambition, and the salty tears of sibling defeat, he has — against all warnings — skipped his nap. Now it’s everyone’s problem.

The air thickens. The house groans beneath his unspent energy.

One sock off. A granola bar fused to his back. No one knows why.

He speaks in riddles and demands. Screams at a blue Lego for being “too blue.” Sobs because he loves crackers too much.

He cannot be reasoned with. He has entered the napless void — a lawless dimension where logic fades and consequences do not exist.

You try: snacks, songs, bribes, peace offerings. But it’s too late.

He has gone feral.

This is not a drill. This is bedtime DEFCON 1.

The clock ticks like it’s wading through peanut butter.

Bedtime, the Promised Land, is still painfully distant.

You cling to your last scraps of sanity like they’re graham crackers in a storm.

The minion — now part cheese stick, part gremlin — shrieks from atop the couch like a toddler prophet foretelling snack doom.

You attempt containment. Hydration. Distraction. But nothing satisfies him.

He is overtired, overpowered, and completely unhinged.

Shoes are hats. Yogurt is in your slipper.

A band-aid of unknown origin is stuck to your forehead.

The cat has fled.

The house is a war zone.

Each minute a battle. Each tantrum a landmine. You’re running on fumes and a stubborn sense of duty.

You are no longer parenting — you are conducting hostage negotiations with a three-year-old who sobbed because his banana was “too curvy.”

Yet still… you endure.

Because that’s what heroes do.

No cape. Just caffeine, carbs, and the faint scent of diaper cream.

Finally, blankey, puppy dog, and juice are summoned. The minion curls up. Peace — delicate, fleeting — settles.

You survived the moment. 

How many minutes until bedtime?