Never Argue With a 3-Year-Old

My three-year-old put his hand on his chin like he was mulling over something troubling I said, "Son, look at this place; what a mess!" “But, Papa,” he moaned, “I pway wifh these!” His room was cluttered from wall to wall-- books and crayons, even an old football, an old sippy cup, its contents long dried up, cars, trucks strewn about from a huge pileup, game pieces and his Christmas roller skates, and things I’d long forgotten he even owned. “Straighten it up, now!” I commanded. He began to pout. “It’s myyyy wooom, Papa.” Stifling a tear of my own, I nodded, agreeing, “But YOUR room is in MY house,” I explained. When I stepped out and closed the door, I heard stuff being tossed hither and yon, So, I stood there for a good long while, and, this is what I heard: “Otay, I queen up my woom, but next year for Quissmas....” then, loudly, “I WANT A HOUSE OF MY OWN, OTAY!” Loud enough for him to hear, I replied, “SO, WHEN NEXT CHRISTMAS COMES, SON, I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO!” Submitted to "2022 Marathon Mile No. 12" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Mark Toney August 12, 2022 FIRST PLACE WINNER Submitted to "'Funny Memories'" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Natasha L Scragg January 16, 2022 Written 3/24/2021 (edited slightly 3/27/2021) Submitted to: "Look At This Place!" Contest Sponsored by Matt Caliri BRONZE WINNER "Anything Children" Contest - All Poetry September 3, 2021