My little ones EM and Iz came downstairs to play in that large, spacious playroom they invade and occupy. I stopped DDRing.
"No, no: no playing until the area is clean," says I.
"Why, Papa? Why? We are going to be playing with the toys that are already out, anyway," they counter, whiningly.
... and the toys they'll be pulling out of the storage area, and the books scattered all over the floor, and the books on the shelves, and the ...
"Because," I 'answered,' "I'm a Mean Papa."
They moan. But EM loves this game, too: "But, Papa, why did you let us come downstairs to play if you're a 'Mean Papa'?"
I give them a growly look: "No playing until the area is clean."
"Awwww!" they complain, and set to work cleaning (by intermittently cleaning between reading books, serving "tea" to their dollies, imitating my dance steps, then intermittently cleaning some more).
Diane returns home from shopping and tromps downstairs.
Kids: "Awwww! We had no time to play! Mama, Papa made us clean the downstairs because he's a 'Mean Papa'!"
Yep, that's me: the Mean Papa.