Pope. Popeity Pope Pope.

In the lobby of Owen's preschool, there are several framed photographs of the Popes throughout the ages.

Without fail, each day, Joel will point to the pictures and say, "Who Dat?"

"That's the Pope, honey," I say.

He'll immediately point to another picture, "Who Dat?"

"Another Pope."

And on and on it goes.

Yesterday, during lunch, Joel was saying "Poop! Poop!"

I frowned and said, "Honey, no potty talk at the table."

Owen, who often translates for his brother, said, "No Mommy, Joel is talking about the Pope."

I turned to Joel and asked, "Is that true, honey?"

He nodded his head vigorously, delighted to be understood.

Owen added in, "Joely wants to be Pope!"

I said, "Is that true, Joely?"

Again, smiles and vigourous head nodding.

I said, "Well, I have honestly never considered that idea. Ever. At all."

Besides the pesky detail that we aren't Catholic, I just cannot imagine my child hanging out in the Vatican, or waving from a Popemobile. I certainly wouldn't kiss his ring.

I mean, I know where that hand as been.

Owen said, "If Joel is going to be Pope, he's gotta learn to play piano!"

Naturally. All the best Popes---Pope Elton John comes to mind---have tickled the ivories.

I suppose that's another roadblock towards Joel's Papacy.

Well, I suppose a mother can imagine. I mean, somebody rocked all those pontiffs to sleep.

For all those Photoshop experts out there, I throw down this challenge: Deck out my son in Papal Regalia. If you can include the pointy hat, that would be stellar.

The person who creates the most fantastic image of my son as pope will win an Eddie Murray Bobblehead. I won it at an Orioles game years ago, and it's probably worth some money. If you don't want that, I will send you a can of Old Bay.

The contest closes Wednesday night. Here's your subject. Have at it: