Before I ever lived with a 4-year-old, the popularity of Elsa, Spider-Man, and Kid President mystified me. Now it makes perfect sense, because I’m pretty sure if scientists conducted brain scans at 4th birthday parties, the results would prove that all kids, in their own minds, are coronated at the moment they blow out those four fateful candles.

I offer this recent example from my own castle. I came home the other day to discover the cloth curtain we use to cover the large and somewhat unfortunate glass window in the door between our kitchen and garage had been removed, revealing a view to royal diners of various paint cans, an air compressor, the recycling bin, and a bare lightbulb. The following conversation ensued:

Ray Coleman's koosh-ball hat has a kingly feel for a 4-year-old.

Me: No more curtain?

Audrey (my wife, nervously): One of us felt like experimenting with not having it up there anymore.

Ray (my 4-year-old son, glowering at us over a bowl of oatmeal): I want that thing off there anymore, forever!

Audrey: I haven’t committed to anything.

Zia (my 2-year-old daughter, walking over to study the view): Pretty!

My son probably views himself in the benevolent guise of his hero, the great purple crayon-wielding nation builder, Harold. But my wife and I sometimes butt heads with a wannabe dictator more along the lines of the kid in that classic “Twilight Zone” episode, in which a boy whose power to make real his every horrifying wish has inhabitants of an entire town toeing the line and repeating the eerie, reassuring mantra, “It’s a good life!”

I have to admit it would be interesting to see my kids’ ideal worlds become reality. I assume clothing would be optional in Zia’s (at least for her), and salty snacks like pretzels, chips, and Freddy’s fries the main course of each meal, followed by M&M’s for dessert (or better yet, a cake covered in M&Ms).

She would find a baby beneath every blanket, in every dresser drawer, and, on especially good days, infant versions of cute animals, like pigs or pandas, behaving like human babies. All communication would be sung in the crisp, accented voice of Julie Andrews, include yodeling, and conclude on a note so high and pure the singer would need to raise one arm to the sky and hold down one’s hat with the other.

As for Ray, he recently told me his preference would be for an entire front yard of dandelions gone to seed, and a back yard identical to KU’s Hoglund Ballpark, except with “real baseball dirt.” Every time he left the house, uniformed members of the Kansas City Royals would be there trying to tag him out.

Inside the house? Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cats. Root beer to drink at all times (in a cup, with a straw, no ice, ever!) and real food replaced with Jelly Belly jellybeans representing it: buttered popcorn, green apples, chocolate pudding, and hey, more root beer!

A disturbing Utopia, indeed, but one that almost came true a few months ago, when my son attempted a full-blown coup d’état on the household. He was emboldened by a construction paper crown to which he had attached a Koosh ball with Scotch Tape, and as he lit out on his tricycle for a nearby park, I could see rubbernecking adults fall under his spell as they slowed and passed, compelled, like us, by the mystic pull of a boy riding rampant in a ridiculous hat.

At the park he climbed to the highest point and stood atop the slide, a resplendent cross between a Shriner and a plumed, Napoleonic general, Koosh ball aquiver in the afternoon sun. How could anyone resist him, so bold, so without inhibitions, so ignorant of all the checks and balances and obligations standing in his way?

Of course to follow him was sheer folly, and yet in his clueless confidence lay something of the essence of true leadership. Behold! The Lord High Executioner surveys his domain. It’s a good life!

But alas, how the mighty fall, like all the great over-reaching kings who came before him. A rough couple of spins down the slide, a windy ride home, and the typical hungry, frustrated tears of a late afternoon were bitterer still with the agony of one who has risen so high and fallen so far.

But an even worse fate awaited, as Mom approached with the roll of Scotch Tape, and Dad rifled through a drawer to find more construction paper. To be rescued by one’s most humble servants is bad enough, but to need them, and love them in spite of it, is almost too confusing, too painful to bear, even for a leader of men.

— Dan Coleman is secretary on the board of Dads of Douglas County. He is a part-time stay at home dad with a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old, but in his other life he is a librarian at the Lawrence Public Library, where he selects children’s and parenting books for the Children’s Room. He can be reached at danielfcoleman@yahoo.com.