The Great Pink Chariot was idling on the driveway, and I, James the Brave (and fully trained in the ways of the porcelain throne, thank you very much), was ready to survey my kingdom.

Mom was at the helm. She was wearing her “I’m doing my best” face and a pair of flip-flops that went thwack-slap against the cold pavement. The air was crisp—the kind of cold that makes your nose feel like a frozen grape—but I was tucked into my red hoodie like a cozy little tomato.

“Forward, Mom-Horse!” I commanded, clutching my Happy Meal box. “To the Water of the Feathers!”

The ride was bumpy. Clack-clack-clack. The world vibrated beneath my royal posterior. I looked back at Mom. Her toes were looking a bit pink, matching my ride.

“Are your feet cold, Mom?” I asked, with the fleeting empathy of a three-year-old.

“A little, buddy. But we’re almost to the pond.”

“Good,” I nodded, instantly moving back to my demands. “Drive faster! Use your big muscles! The ducks are waiting for my arrival!”

As we approached the pond, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy with the scent of stagnant water and… The Menace. The Geese.

They were everywhere. Huge, hissing, feathered bandits with no respect for the law. And they had left their calling cards. The sidewalk was a tactical minefield of green-grey blobs.

“STOP!” I shrieked.

Mom jolted to a halt, her flip-flops skidding dangerously close to a particularly large specimen of goose-gift.

“What? What is it?” she panted, her breath blooming in the cold air like a dragon’s smoke.

“DISASTER!” I scrambled out of the pink basin. My boots hit the ground with a definitive thump. I marched to the front of the vehicle, my brow furrowed in a way that suggested I was about to fire someone.

I crouched down, squinting at the black rubber of the wheel. There, smeared across the tread like a cursed paste, was a streak of green.

“Mom!” I pointed a finger of pure accusation. “The wheel! The wheel has… GOOSE-YUCKY!”

“Oh, James, it’s fine, we can just—”

“NO!” I stood up, my King James attitude reaching a fever pitch. I looked at the geese floating nearby. They stared back with cold, uncaring eyes. “You! You put the yucky on my truck! You are under arrest! ALL OF YOU!”

I turned back to Mom, who was shivering in her sandals. “We cannot drive with the yucky, Mom. It will get on my nuggets. It will ruin the pinkness!”

I leaned in close to the wheel, inspecting the damage like a seasoned mechanic. “We need a wipe. We need a big, giant wipe from the house. This is a code green!”

Mom looked at the house, then at her frozen toes, then back at me—a small boy in a red hoodie, standing over a pink wheelbarrow, declaring war on goose poop.

“James,” she sighed, “can we just keep going?”

“No,” I said, crossing my arms over my Nike swoosh. “The King does not ride on yucky wheels. NEEEXXTTT WHEEL, PLEASE!”

The “Code Green” on the tire had been managed—mostly by Mom doing a tactical “scrub-roll” through some frost-bitten grass while I watched with the narrowed eyes of a high-court judge.

But then, the call came. Not the call of the geese. Not the call of the “Mom-Horse” to keep moving.

The Call of Nature.

I am a big boy. I wear big-boy pants. I do not do the diaper thing. But when a King has to go, he doesn’t wait for a throne room. He finds a monument.

“STOP!” I barked, already scrambling out of the pink chariot before the wheels had even stopped spinning.

Mom sighed, a puff of white air escaping her tired face. “James, we’re almost home. Can you wait?”

“NO!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the surface of the pond. “I HAVE TO RELEASE THE JUICE!”

I marched over to a large, grey rock—a perfect, stoic boulder sitting at the edge of the path. It was a noble rock. It deserved this.

I did the deed with the focus of a master craftsman. The steam rose in the cold morning air, a tiny, warm cloud of victory. The geese watched from the water, silent for once, clearly intimidated by my range and accuracy. As I finished, I looked back at Mom. She was standing there in her flip-flops, her toes probably the color of a frozen blueberry, looking like she wanted to be literally anywhere else on Earth.

I felt a sudden, rare burst of Kingly generosity. I am a fair ruler. I provide for my people.

I gestured grandly to the smaller, flatter rock right next to mine. It was a prime piece of real estate. Unoccupied. Pristine.

“Here, Mom!” I shouted, my voice bright with helpfulness. “You can use this one! Right next to me! If you need to pee-pee too!”

Mom’s eyes went wide. She looked at the rock, then at the neighbors’ houses, then back at me. A faint, hysterical sort of laugh bubbled out of her.

“Oh… thank you, James,” she said, her voice sounding a little bit strangled. “That is so, so kind of you. Truly. But I think I’ll pass. I’ll just… wait for the house.”

I frowned.

“But it’s a good rock, Mom. It’s very flat. No goose-yucky on this one!”

“I believe you, angel,” she said, gently steering me back toward the pink wheelbarrow. “I really do. But let’s get back into the chariot. My toes are officially ice cubes.”

I climbed back in, settling onto my throne with a satisfied sigh. I had conquered the pants. I had arrested the geese. I had blessed the landscape.

“Fine,” I muttered, hugging my Happy Meal box. “But you’re missing out. It’s a very fast rock.”

“I’m sure it is, King James,” Mom muttered, leaning into the handles and pushing us back toward the driveway.

“I’m sure it is.”