The Enneagram Types Babysitting a Toddler

There are few things more humbling than babysitting a toddler. You think you’re in control. You think you’re the adult. But toddlers are tiny anarchists with no concept of social contracts, physics, or personal space. They will destroy your dignity one juice-box demand at a time, and they will enjoy it.

As a mom of five, I genuinely love the toddler stage. I’ve survived it enough times to find the chaos endearing… most days. But then there are those days when you’re overtired, the toddler is overtired, and somehow they’re also acting like they just pounded three espressos and a handful of Skittles.

Now imagine nine Enneagram types trapped in a living room with this single, caffeinated toddler.

This is not a heartwarming “found family” story. This is a psychological endurance test.

Let’s meet our first victims.

Not sure what your personality type is? Take our Enneagram questionnaire here!

Estimated reading time: 9 minutes

Type 1 – The Perfectionist

The toddler throws a half-eaten granola bar into the air like confetti.

Type 1 catches it mid-flight with the reflexes of someone who has had enough.

“Sweetheart, we don’t throw food. Food has a home. The trash can is its home. Let’s respect that.”

The toddler grins and projectile-sneezes directly into Type 1’s soul.

Type 1 doesn’t flinch. They are a fortress of quiet judgment and Lysol wipes. You’d think they’d be the ideal babysitter—structured, responsible, morally superior—but they are losing a silent war against entropy. For every toy they re-shelve alphabetically, the toddler unleashes a new, creatively repulsive mess. There’s kinetic sand in the couch cushions. A sippy cup in the toilet. Type 1’s eyelid is twitching. They are this close to writing a strongly worded letter to God about the design flaws of toddlers.

But they won’t say anything. No, they’ll just scrub the high chair and whisper, “It’s fine. This is fine.”

Type 2 – The Helper

While Type 1 is busy re-alphabetizing the toy shelf, Type 2 is calmly crouched at toddler-eye-level, radiating benevolent authority.

“Sweetheart, we share our toys. We use kind words. We don’t hit. That’s not who we are.”

The toddler, of course, responds by licking Type 2’s entire forearm like it’s a popsicle.

Type 2 does not flinch. They have the patience of a saint and the spine of a slightly passive-aggressive kindergarten teacher. They are here to nurture goodness into this child, whether the child wants it or not.

But unlike Type 1, who is trying to fix the mess, Type 2 is here to fix the feelings They are the designated kindness coach, the gentle guide to a more selfless existence. Every moment is a teachable moment.

“Would you like to help me tidy up? It’s so important to be helpful. When we help, we make the world a better place.”

The toddler throws a stuffed llama at Type 2’s head.

“That’s okay. You’re still learning. We’ll get there.”

Type 2 doesn’t need constant validation from the toddler. They get their validation from knowing that, someday, this child will look back and remember that someone showed them how to be a good human.

Even if today, that someone is silently wiping drool off their shirt while explaining why we don’t climb the bookshelf to “rescue” the Wi-Fi router.

Type 3 – The Achiever

Type 3 is watching the toddler fling Goldfish crackers across the room with the kind of existential horror most people reserve for public speaking nightmares.

“This is… fine,” they mutter, already mentally drafting a PR statement for the toddler’s future college application. “Early motor skill development. Very advanced. Very… unfiltered.”

Type 3’s problem isn’t that they don’t like babysitting. It’s that babysitting is an unmitigated wasteland of inefficiency. Nothing is getting done. There are no metrics. No immediately achievable milestones. Just a small, sticky human whose primary life goal is chaos.

So Type 3 pivots. They spark a competition. “Hey buddy, bet you can’t put all those blocks in the bin faster than me.” The toddler lights up. Finally—a challenge.

It works. For exactly 12 seconds.

Then the toddler realizes it’s more fun to launch the blocks across the room like tiny missiles of defiance. Type 3’s jaw twitches. “Alright, new goal—most stylish block launcher wins.”

Type 4 – The Individualist

Type 4 is kneeling beside the toddler, holding up a dandelion puff like it’s the Holy Grail of meaningful childhood experiences.

“Look. This is a wish flower. You’re supposed to close your eyes, make a wish from your heart, and then blow all the little seeds away into the world.”

The toddler takes the dandelion, stares at it for exactly three seconds, and eats it.

Type 4 freezes. But they recover. They will not be deterred. They are determined to curate a whimsical, soul-enriching afternoon that this toddler will—someday—remember as a core memory of magic and connection. They have flashbacks to their own childhood; gray, boring, emotionally stifled, and they refuse to let this toddler grow up thinking a meaningful life is just screen time and pre-packaged snacks.

So they press on.

They build an elaborate fort of blankets and fairy lights. They attempt to read classic storybooks in voices dripping with theatrical nuance. They even consider crafting matching flower crowns.

But the toddler is not here for depth. They are here to tackle furniture and lick things that shouldn’t be licked.

Type 4 will spend most of the afternoon wrestling between aesthetic ideals and practical survival, whispering mantras like, “It’s fine, magic is messy,” as the toddler uses their hand-knitted quilt as a sled down the stairs.

By the end, Type 4 isn’t even mad. They’re just emotionally raw, a little wistful, and already planning a melancholy piece of art using the toddler’s abandoned fingerpaints.

Type 5 – The Investigator

Type 5 knew this day was coming.

They’ve prepared for it in the only way that makes sense: by designing a self-sustaining toddler containment system.

While the others are frantically putting out emotional fires, Type 5 is in the corner, meticulously constructing a blanket fort of functional brilliance. We’re talking a fully-enclosed, structurally sound fortress equipped with sensory toys, a spill-proof snack station, a cozy nap zone, and—most importantly—an interior toddler-entertainment loop that requires zero adult interaction.

The toddler, intrigued by this mysterious new structure, toddles in. There are soft lights. There are puzzles. There’s a sippy cup holster. It’s like a toddler-sized Airbnb with a five-star rating on “leaving Type 5 alone.”

And as the toddler entertains themselves inside their luxury containment unit, Type 5 finally exhales, retreats to the furthest corner of the room, and opens a book. They don’t even look up when chaos erupts outside the fort.

“Inside the fort, there is peace,” they murmur, sipping their now-lukewarm coffee. “Inside the fort, there is order.”

The others think Type 5 is some kind of wizard. A toddler whisperer. But really, Type 5 has just done what they always do—created a bubble of autonomy where they can exist without being emotionally looted by tiny, sticky hands.

They will protect this fortress with their life.

(Or at least until the toddler finds the zipper and the whole system collapses.)

Type 6 – The Loyalist

Type 6 is prepared. They have an emergency contact list. They have a backup sippy cup. They have read the babysitting instructions four times and will reference them at fifteen-minute intervals just to make sure nothing has changed.

But toddlers don’t care about protocols. Toddlers are here to test the structural integrity of Type 6’s last nerve.

The toddler climbs onto the coffee table.

“That’s not safe.”

The toddler dances on the coffee table.

“I said that’s not safe.”

The toddler attempts a swan dive off the coffee table.

Type 6’s reflexes kick in. They intercept the toddler mid-air, plop them back onto the ground, and commence a Safety Briefing complete with animated hand gestures about why we don’t “fly” indoors.

But inside, Type 6 is losing it. They are in a constant state of bracing-for-impact. Every quiet moment is suspicious. Every giggle is a harbinger of doom. The only reason they haven’t called the parents to come home early is because they don’t want to seem paranoid.

They’ll just triple-check the locks again. Just in case.

Type 7 – The Enthusiast

Type 7 is not babysitting.

They are curating an experience.

“Alright, kiddo! We’ve got three hours, a bucket of sidewalk chalk, and zero adult supervision. Let’s make this legendary.”

The toddler is THRIVING. Type 7 has turned the living room into an obstacle course, the kitchen into an experimental baking lab, and the backyard into a chaotic art installation titled “Screaming Into the Void (In Crayon).”

For the first hour, it’s bliss. High-energy, laughter-filled, adrenaline-powered bliss. Type 7 is the fun babysitter, the cool grown-up, the Peter Pan of this chaotic Neverland.

But toddlers don’t pace themselves.

By hour two, the toddler is on their third sugar crash, face-planted on the floor, wailing because their sock feels “wrong.” Type 7, while still smiling, is now internally bargaining with God for a fast-forward button.

They glance at the clock.

Twelve minutes have passed.

And this is where Type 7 hits the existential dread wall. The realization that you cannot escape a toddler’s meltdown. You cannot distract them forever. There is no spontaneous adventure that can outpace a two-year-old’s emotional chaos cycle.

Type 8 – The Challenger

Type 8 takes one look at the toddler’s wild-eyed chaos and decides—nope. This is a battle of wills now.

They cross their arms. “We’re not doing this.”

The toddler responds with a shriek that could summon demons. Type 8 doesn’t blink. They’ve stared down corporate execs, family drama, and existential crises. A two-foot-tall dictator in Paw Patrol pajamas is not going to break them.

“You think you’re in charge here? Cute.”

Type 8 proceeds to establish order with sheer, immovable presence. They give the toddler exactly two options: cooperate or be scooped up like a sack of potatoes and plopped into timeout. The toddler tests them. Of course they do. But Type 8 enjoys a good challenge.

Within 30 minutes, there’s a fragile but functional regime in place. The toddler is allowed to be wild, but only within the sanctioned chaos zones. Type 8 is the bouncer at the nightclub of toddlerhood, enforcing boundaries with a raised eyebrow and a “don’t even think about it” stare.

But secretly? They’re having fun. There’s something satisfying about meeting a pure force of chaos head-on and holding the line.

At least until the toddler sweet-talks Type 2 into overthrowing the whole system.

Type 9 – The Peacemaker

Type 9 has been quietly monitoring the situation from the couch, pretending to read a picture book but actually running an elaborate mental simulation of how to keep everyone from losing their minds.

Their strategy? Blend in. Don’t disturb the chaos. Pacify as needed.

When the toddler starts yanking on lamp cords, Type 9 gently redirects them with a toy. When the toddler shrieks about wanting the blue cup, Type 9 telepathically senses the brewing disaster and swaps it out before a single tear can fall.

They are the emotional airbag of the room; absorbing tension, smoothing out rough edges, and sacrificing their personal boundaries in the name of household harmony.

But the cracks are starting to show.

The toddler hasn’t napped. The other types are fraying at the seams. And Type 9 is silently meditating through it all, clinging to a single, desperate hope: “If I stay really still, maybe the universe will forget I exist.”

By the end, Type 9 will be the only one who hasn’t raised their voice or lost their cool. But at what cost? They’ll be emotionally comatose, curled up in a blanket cocoon, repeating the mantra, “It’s fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine,” while the toddler paints their socks with yogurt.

What Do You Think?

Do you relate to your Enneagram type’s strengths, weaknesses, and coping mechanisms? Do you have an insight or story to share? Let us know in the comments!