As our resident creative soul, six-year old Emily used some of my mom’s fabric scraps to make a headband with a pony tail about 10 feet long. Declaring herself to be Rapunzel, Emily waited at the top of my parent’s stairs and stood ready to let her “hair” fall over the railing. My parents and I watched as she instructed her eight-year old brother, David, to go down the stairs to be her prince.
Emily: “Okay, now say Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair.”
David: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel give me your hair.”
Emily: “NO! Rapunzel, Rapunzel LET down your hair.”
David: “Rapunzel, let down your hair and I’ll take you to poop land.”
David was fired.
She replaced David with my father.
Emily: “Da, say Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair.”
Da: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair.”
Emily: “Um, Da. Could you say it like a real prince?”
(I can’t blame Emily. Da’s delivery was a bit weak.)
Da: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair so I can rescue you from the tower but NOT take you to poop land.”
Da was fired. Improvisation is not appreciated by this princess.
Rapunzel came down the stairs mumbling, “I’ll just do it myself. It’s so hard to find a good prince around here.”
Do I worry about the princess phenomenon? Am I concerned that letting my daughter be a princess will let her feel like she’s overly entitled? Like the world owes her happiness, success, and beauty on a silver platter? Like there’s a prince on a white horse around every corner?
Because Emily’s tiara is most often accessorized with a sword and shield. Her notions of romance with a healthy dose of “are you kidding me?” moxy. So when she asks me if she’s a princess I don’t hesitate to answer.
“Yes, baby girl, you’re my kind of princess.”