Your son is three,
which means every truck is his truck
and every room is apparently
a construction site.

He enters the day
like a WWE intro:

“HE’S COMING IN HOT
WITH A JUICE BOX
AND NO REGARD FOR HUMAN SAFETY.”

He body-slams couch cushions,
suplexes stuffed animals,
and somehow wins arguments
using pure confidence.

The dump truck? Legendary.
The monster truck? Holy artifact.
The garbage truck outside at 7 a.m.?
A sacred event requiring immediate observation
in dinosaur pajamas.

His pockets contain:
one rock,
three crackers,
something sticky,
and a Hot Wheels car
with exactly one wheel left.

He runs everywhere
like he’s late to a very important meeting
about mud.

He asks impossible questions like,
“Can excavators fight crocodiles?”
and honestly?
you should probably let him lead NASA someday.

At bedtime he smells faintly
of syrup, dirt, and chaos.
He insists he’s “not even tired,”
seconds before falling asleep sideways
like a tiny defeated wrestler
after a long title match.

And tomorrow he’ll wake up ready
to lift invisible weights,
fight imaginary bad guys,
and explain the horsepower
of a cement mixer with absolute authority.