I have officially jumped into the world of competitive parenting.

My leap from the amateur to semi-pro leagues occurred during a recent fundraising event at my son’s daycare center. For several weeks I had been looking forward to the silent auction because one of the items was a sea-themed wooden toy chest, hand-painted by my son’s class of 2 year olds.

It had miniature sea horses and starfish. Green palm trees and white sand beaches. And a shore dotted with glued-on photographs of my son -- whose smiling mug happened to be front and center -- and his fellow artists.

In the past year, my son has churned out his share of wonderful art. An American Flag made from Popsicle sticks. A paper Christmas ornament. His handprint in hardened clay. I’m no Picasso, but I sense my son has extraordinary talent. And the toy chest is by far my favorite piece yet, even if it was a collaborative class effort.

I couldn’t attend the silent auction, but I sent my wife in with specific instructions: Pay whatever price it takes to bring that sucker home to Dad.

She interpreted my instructions to mean that she should pay whatever price, up to a point. Truthfully, I thought we would only have to drop a couple hundred dollars. But my wife was outbid handily by a mom willing to pay double that amount.

As a consolation prize, my wife successfully bid on an unassembled wooden playhouse. It came in what seemed like a hundred pieces and took four days to primer and paint.

The whole time I worked, I felt sorry for myself. I couldn’t stand the idea that my son’s sea-inspired masterpiece was bound for another home.

But you know what? My blues washed away the moment I saw my wife and son playing in his new playhouse. Apparently, it was perfect for hiding from invisible monsters and offered plenty of room for his favorite toy cars.

Sometimes taking home second-place isn’t so bad, after all.

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