I just took my four year-old to see Beauty and the Beast in the movie theater and now I feel I must atone for that but posting this captioned image which has been circulating like mad on Facebook. I particularly enjoy the Beauty one because that story is the one I've been able to spin so that there's a decent morale to it -- its what's on the INSIDE that counts -- except that, yes, this caption is right, it only applies to men. And anyway, your toad will probably turn into a prince in the end anyway, so really you only have to tolerate his freakish appearance for a limited period of time.
I have the best babysitter on earth.A lot of people say that, but I think it’s true in this case. I’m sure not everyone would consider her the best, particularly if you are the kind of parent who wants your house clean when you come home to it. Forget doing dishes or laundry. The girl doesn’t so much as pick up an overturned basket of Barbie brushes. But what she lacks in tidiness, she makes up for in kick-ass-ness.
I should note, too, that she’s my cousin. So I’m biased. But she is pretty amazing.
First, she introduced my 5 year-old to Gothic literature and inspired him to read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein by the end of first grade.
Then, last week, she took the kids to Barnes and Nobles. When Sec goes to Barnes and Nobles, she heads right for the Disney princess section. This is not hard to do as basically, the entire children’s section is one large Disney Princess section. They’ve sprinkled a few of those aggravating Ariel books that play music and those magnetic Cinderella dress-up dolls into every display, just so you never have to walk two feet without being bathed in the glow of commercialism.
I loathe reading the Disney princess books to her. I don’t so much mind playing with the Disney princess Barbies or watching the Disney princess movies but something about having to pretend the crap I’m reading is literature makes my stomach churn. Still, reading about Belle and her new pony is better than not reading at all. So, I suck down my dignity and read “A dream wedding for Cinderella!” and other noxious titles. Lately, Sec’s been into the Easy Reader Princess books which is a double whammy of horror, being both easy readers (need I remind you of my distaste for Mittens?) and about princesses.Mind you, she doesn’t want to read them herself, in which case, I’d turn a blind eye. She wants me to read them.
“Belle has sweet ballet dreams. Will she wear a tutu or a gown?”
“Aurora loves to spin and twirl. Prance, princess, prance!”
I feel dirty afterwards.
But last week, my cousin was watching the kids and took them to Barnes and Nobles and Primo had a GLOWING report afterwards, boasting about how my cousin had made the awful princess stories funny and unexpected.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She didn’t read what was on the page, but made it BETTER,” he clarified, “So they aren’t such bad influences on Seconda.”
Who knows WHERE he comes up with this stuff? It’s not like I brainwash the kid.
“Like, she was reading this Snow White book and said, ‘Snow White was in medical school and so she taught the dwarves the value of proper hygiene.’”
“What else?” I asked him.
“Tiana knew she had a bond with the prince but she still didn’t want it to mess up her MBA.”
“Cinderella was very beautiful but she knew that science was more important.”
“Beauty was polite but she was also independent and thought for herself.”
“Sleeping Beauty enjoyed fashion but her true love was politics.”
Genius, I think. And it had the double virtue of not only giving princess-crazed Sec what she wanted as well as what she needed but entertaining Primo to no end.
I was sitting at my computer about to write a blog post when Primo happened by and asked what I was doing.
“I’m just writing a post for my blog,” I said, “Do you have any ideas for me? Something interesting or funny which happened lately or which I should talk about?”
Primo said, “I wish I had a computer so I could write blog posts."
And that was when I invited him to guest blog for me. He decided to write about his sister’s princess fixation.
Here’s what he came up with:
The Tragical Story of Squeaky Princesses
It all a started out when we got the movie Snow White. Sec watched a princess with a squeaky voice. The next day, Seconda was asking for a Snow White shirt. Mommy said, “No.” The next day, we went to New Jersey. That’s when she watched Sleeping Beauty, ANOTHER princess with a squeaky voice. The next day, she asked for a Sleeping Beauty bike. Those people that make princess bikes just want money, you know. Then, Mommy had an idea. Every time, Seconda got enough points, by being good, she could get what she wanted. The next week, she got a princess bike basket. My face turned red. That’s because I was angry that Seconda got princess stuff, because they have squeaky voices and they scream in a very squeaky scream when they’re scared. If you don’t understand, I mean that I think they are annoying.
My strategy for getting Sec off the princess habit, is to tell a princess story with also other stuff, with wizards, witches, goblins, ghosts, evil kings, lava bosses and knights. That will cure her.
Dude, I’ve got myself a new guest blogger. And for him, I guess its better than a paper route, though less lucrative.
As you may know from previous posts, my daughter is obsessed with Disney princess and while I want to support her interests, I cringe, I wince when I hear that aggravating Sleeping Beauty singing about how someday her prince'll come. Its one thing to enjoy glamour and riches and another to sit on your lovely ass waiting for a dashing dude to make life interesting. So I am on an eternal quest to find her some alternative princess stories, like Paper Bag Princess, Princess Smartypants, and Princess Knight.
This month, thanks to discerning adults who know my tastes and my daughter's obsessions, I have two new alt princess tales to add to the collection.
Ten Big Toes and A Prince's Nose In which a cool clever princess with huge, flipper-like feet meets a prince with a gigantix schnoz and make their own happily ever after. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder meets a double whammy Cyrano. Oh, and it rhymes. Take the mantra both the prince and princess recite before bed (a bit hitting-you-over-the-head, but what the hell, its a good message):
"I am what I am and its all right with me I don't have to be different, I just have to be I don't want to be somebody else, no sireee I am what I am and its all right with me."
Fanny's Dream This one makes me cry. Love love love it. Fanny Agnes, a "sturdy" farmer girl who knows how to handle her horse manure, waits for fairy godmother on the night of the ball at the mayor's house. The fairy godmother never shows. But Heber Jensen, the short farmer boy from next door, does, and asks her to marry him. She figures why the hell not and they go on to work hard to build a home together, have three kids and laugh together by cande-light. Then, suddenly, one night the Fairy Godmother shows up. tells her there's another ball at the mayor's house with an available colonel. Is she in or out?
And then she realizes, of course, that she already found her prince who is currently reading bedtime stories to their three kids.
COULD YOU DIE??????
Now that's a message every girl should hear.
Get these books, post post haste. They have made me feel infinitely less guilt-ridden when Seconda is listening to Snow White squeaking on and on about the dashing prince of her dreams. And really, that's what parenting is all about -- guilt alleviation.
If you've been following my losing battle against the princess parasite, you will not be surprised to hear how excited I was when I heard there was a new book out entitled Cinderella Ate My Daughter. Now, I haven't read the book yet, but the Times review by Annie Murphy Paul, had me hooked and I am DYING to dig in. In the book, Peggy Orenstein heads to toy fairs, beauty pageants, American Girl stores and Miley Ciris concerts, trying to figure out why and how the "princess phase" has become a more or less inevitable milestone of childhood for girls, what that phase morphs into, and at what cost our daughters feed the princess machine. This is Paul summing up the book's explanation of the very calculated invention of "Disney Princess":
"in 2000 a Disney executive named Andy Mooney went to check out a “Disney on Ice” show and found himself “surrounded by little girls in princess costumes. Princess costumes that were — horrors! — homemade. How had such a massive branding opportunity been overlooked? The very next day he called together his team and they began working on what would become known in-house as ‘Princess.’ ”
Kind of creeps you out, right? But as far as I can tell, Orenstein isn't arguing that Disney and the rest of the toy companies have invented the yen for girliness, they've only found a way to sate it and make bank. Here's the part that really engrossed me:
"Orenstein finds one such enlightening explanation in developmental psychology research showing that until as late as age 7, children are convinced that external signs — clothing, hairstyle, favorite color, choice of toys — determine one’s sex. “It makes sense, then, that to ensure you will stay the sex you were born you’d adhere rigidly to the rules as you see them and hope for the best,” she writes. “That’s why 4-year-olds, who are in what is called ‘the inflexible stage,’ become the self-appointed chiefs of the gender police. Suddenly the magnetic lure of the Disney Princesses became more clear to me: developmentally speaking, they were genius, dovetailing with the precise moment that girls need to prove they are girls, when they will latch on to the most exaggerated images their culture offers in order to stridently shore up their femininity.”"
I find this fascinating because it seems so in line with what I've witnessed in Seconda. Her desire to wear princess dress-up is, in no way, causal -- it's not even a desire so much as an urgent need, and when she is not wearing a frilly dress, she gets genuinely worked up, frantic. Now sure, this is partly because I've got a kid that could get frantic over getting the wrong kind of breakfast cereal, but I see, too, that when she's not donning her dress, she feels in jeopardy in some way. And I'm reminded of how even a year or two ago, she would go apopletic when I put pants on her, insisting, "BUT I'M A GIRL!!!"
I'm wondering, though, why boys don't typically demonstrate such a fervent need as well. Maybe when I read the book, I'll find out.
In any event, I'm soon to be attending the same toy fair Orenstein mentions in her book and while I'm there, I'll be going to a talk on "Rethinking the Gender Bias in Toys", so fret not, readers, you'll be hearing more on the matter.
Last night I overheard the following exchange in my children's bedroom:
Sec: “AHHHHH! I just stepped on something! I hate this! I hate this whole world! I hate my bed! My foot hurts! Primo, can you heal it?"
Primo: "Let me see . . well, your body is pumping blood into your skin, to form a scab, which is a band-aid your body makes. Maybe it will have princesses on it."
“My scab will have princesses on it?”
“I am only joking about the princesses.”
“Hey, let’s pretend I am Sleeping Beauty and I touch the spindle and when I do you make a big noise and then I DIE!”
“No, no, lets do the original one when you dance so fast you melt!”
“NO NO NO! What do you think this is – Snow WHITE? I am SLEEPING BEAUTY and I touch the spindle and THEN I DIE!”
“Whatever you want.”
I have three thoughts:
A. You wouldn't have stepped on anything if you were lying down, like you're supposed to.
B. What a wise man my son is becoming to learn so early the power of "whatever you say."
C. Sorry, I was under the impression that this was BEDTIME, which entailed soothing activities like counting sheep, not changing into dress-up and launching elaborate and thrilling pretend play scenarios. My mistake.
When the New Year started, David and I took a good, long look at the state of our children’s behavior (not that a long look was necessary) and realized it was basically crap. Please be clear: I’m not saying, ala Amy Chua, Tiger Mother, that my kids are crap, only that their behavior is. You know the way adults sort of slack off on their diets over the holidays and then, come New Year’s decide, they’ve got to do something about the unmistakable bulge that’s developed? This is precisely what happened to my children, except that instead of gaining weight, they gained gall, attitude and anarchic leanings. All those presents and candy and cake and time off from school eroded their already questionable devotion to rules and order.
So, in order to aid our return to discipline, we resuscitated the old sticker charts. Primo’s sticker chart is specifically targeted to reward brave behavior, because he’s Achilles Hell is worry. It was more difficult to decide what issue Seconda’s sticker chart should address since she has a few areas that need drastic improvement. We settled on a “listening chart” to acknowledge and reward instances of good listening and cooperation. It has taken a long time, but she has finally early the requisite 25 stickers necessary for a small reward of her choice. And what she chose was . . . Disney princess makeup. I will pause as you throw up in your mouth a little.
Disney Princess Makeup.
Each of these three things taken separately are not so objectionable – I certainly appreciate Walt’s contribution to the cinema; there are a lot of stirring and compelling princess narratives; and hey, I enjoy body art of all types -- tattoos, nail polish, facepaint, whatever the hell floats your boat. But put together Disney and Princess and Makeup and you get a total abomination. The kit she selected contained some stick-on nail tips, a tube of lip balm, a pot of lip gloss and one bottle of sparkly nail polish, everything covered in pastel images ofSnow White, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty’s smiling faces. The thought of my daughter applying cheap-o, probably toxic makeup in the hopes of making her sublime, perfect face more closely resemble those of the anemic, moronic women who contain absolutely no chutzpah, cojones or problem-solving skills, fills me with agony, However, I keenly remember feeling the same irresistible pull to the princess crap. Hell, if I’m being honest, I STILL do, in part, You see those ruby red lips and the perfect bows sitting atop their shiny do’s and you’re hypnotized. You are rendered powerless under the spell of pretty. So I wasn’t about to put my foot down and ban princesses, especially since I know that’ll only make her want it more.
So, I paid for the makeup, all the while reminding Seconda that it was fun to play with makeup but that she didn’t NEED it to be pretty, that what makes her pretty is her free spirit and her kindness and big glittering eyes and her sense of humor.
“OK,” she said, “Now can I have the princess makeup?”
I was worried that she’d fight me to wear it to school but that turned out to be a moot point. After a half hour shrieking and squealing and ooohing and ahhing, Seconda got quiet and disappeared. This was suspicious but I didn’t want to look the gift horse of peace and quiet in the mouth so I did not look for her. Then, as I was crossing my legs at the table where I sat typing,my foot banged into something soft. A child. My child, hiding gunder the table.
I knew whatever she was doing was going to be bad, that’s how quiet and well-hidden she was. So I took a deep breath before pulling up the tablecloth. There was Sec, buck naked, her body smeared in Disney Princess Lip Gloss, and the stick of lip balm chewed down to the nub. Not only had she covered herself in pretty, she’d ingested the pretty. That kid never does anything half-ass.
So, just like that, we were rid of the Disney Princess Makeup. Sometimes letting them glut themselves can do the trick.
Primo’s friend came over for a playdate recently and the boys were playing Spiderman (not his all-time favorite game, but hey, he dabbles in it, because who doesn’t like the web-throwing boy wonder?). Trouble was, neither of the boys wanted to play Venom. Then Seconda darted into their room, growled at the boys with her fingers curled into claw position in that patented Seconda way, and Primo’s pal had an a-ha moment:
“Let Seconda be Venom!” he exclaimed.
Seconda happily agreed and did, I think, a stand-up job or chasing the boys around the apartment screeching with delight and throwing herself atop of them with awful abandon.
Tough as nails, and often just as dangerous to play with. My girl may be a princess, ut she’s a princess that’ll disembowel if you cross her. Betty Friedan, I think, would be proud.
On a typical day, my 3 year-old has more costume changes than Madonna in concert. She strips down and re-dresses head to toe about four times a day. And that’s NOT counting the morning get-dressed drama.
In the morning I literally feel like Seconda is Meryl Streep and I’m Anne
Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada.
“I SAID I want to wear a dress!!!!!”
“NOT THAT DRESS!!! I HATE THAT DRESS!”
“No no no!!!! This one is too BIG!”
“This one is too SMALL!”
“This is TOO SCRATCHY!”
“I told you a million timesI WANT THE PINK ONE!”
“WHERE IS MY CINDERELLA DRESS???”
“No no NO!!! You are making me VERY ANGRY!!!”
Many women would need a Xantax to get through our daily get-dressed drama. MANY women. Thankfully I am a martyr mom and my nerves are steely. But by the time we’re out the door, I’ve already depleted my entire store of patience for the day. For both kids. I’m running on empty from 9am.
Here are Sec’s current wardrobe criteria:
1. She will not, under any circumstances wear pants.
“I DON”T WANT TO BE A BOY!!!!” is the explanation.I always reply, “Mommy is wearing pants. Is Mommy a boy?” and all I get back is a dirty look, like she’s saying, “I’m holding myself to higher standards than YOU, Ma.” Incidentally, she won’t wear pants at night either, only nightgowns.
2. She will not wear skirts.
That is, unless they are used as petticoats, under dresses. I have tried to pitch skirts as “dress bottoms” but she’s not buying it. She’s watched enough Disney to know real princesses wear one pieces.
3. She will not wear long sleeves.
I don’t blame her. Back when I had svelte arms I’d wear short sleeves exclusively, too. But I had sense enough to put a sweater on. Or a jacket. This is NYC after all, and spring is capricious.
4. She will wear not wear any dress devoid of the color pink.
Look, I like pink, I really do. Have you seen my hot pink sneaks? But come on, diversify the color palette.
5. She will not wear anything that does not zip up the back.
This is the most recent limitation and it is wildly annoying. Because while I can live with pink short-sleeved floor-length gowns every day, having to find ones that zip up the back is asking too much. But if I put on a button-back or a halter or even a pullover that is too roomy in the neck I get: “IT’S OPEN IN THE BACK! BUCKLE ME BUCKLE ME!” This kid wants to be laced up like a Victorian, tight, tight, tight. I have been known to mutter under my breath, “You’re a flippin’ nutjob . . . . ”
The whole process is exceedingly unpleasant. David has made it clear he’ll take no part in it. The burden has fallen to me. Which, honestly, is fitting. In a sense I feel like I am getting an Inferno-esque dose of retribution. For years, David has had to wait endlessly before we go out, while I toss dresses and blouses and shoes on and off, filling our bedroom with rejected apparel, running back to look in the full-length mirror. The punishment fits the crime.
Now I know I’m not the only one with this dressing drama. Is your kid as much of a diva as Sec? And how do you deal without blowing your top?
Recently the kids and I were in an elevator with a sweet, grandmother-type who complimented the ball gown that Sec was wearing.
“You look like a princess!” she admired.
Primo piped up:
“You shouldn’t tell her that because she will just want people to say that all the time and not many people will and then she will be disappointed.”
The woman missed the point of his advice and replied, “But she does look like a princess.”
Then Primo felt compelled to inform her – as he does many a co-rider on the elevator -- that his sister was going through the “terrible threes.”
And the grandmother replied – as many a co-rider in the elevator do:
“Oh I can’t believe that! She’s so pretty!”
“Yes, she is pretty,” said Primo, “but she’s also bad. Like the stepmother in Snow White.”
You can tell that this is a lesson I have drummed into my children's heads. I've found it a particularly important one for Primo, who will one day fall head over heels for some cold-hearted woman whose face could launch a thousand ships. All Disney princess movies should require children to repeat a hundred times “It’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts” after each viewing as a kind of antidote.
In any event, the grandmother looked relieved when we got off on our floor. She just wanted to give a pretty girl a simple compliment but Primo wouldn’t let her off the hook. That’s my boy.
The whole princess thing is gaining momentum with Seconda. I don’t love it but there’s not much I can do to stop it so I’m trying not make too much of a fuss. Up until now, the element of these stories that really fascinated Sec hasn’t been the prince or the romance but the evil characters. Most of the time she’s dressing up as the evil stepmother or Maleficient or Ursula, and I get it, completely. They are the only women in the stories who DO anything of interest. They are, in fact, incredibly powerful: they work magic, and wreak havoc and have a real impact. I’ve secretly been proud that she’s so into the evil villanesses and unconcerned with the princesses, who are, for the most part, big old ditzes.
But a few days ago, something changed. Sec walked over to me and said in an incredibly solemn voice:
“Mommy, will you marry me?”
“Will I marry you?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she repeated softly, gazing into my eyes, “Will you be my wife?”
I’m not sure where she’s got this from, since the fairytales we read and watch don’t cover this verbiage: no one really asks anyone to get married, it’s just a forgone conclusion seeing as how the prince saved the girl from a gruesome death.
But wherever she got it from, the question was pending, and I replied with the only possible answer: “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Then she ever-so-slowly brought her face to me and gave me a kiss.
Have I told you how affection-starved I am by my whirling dervish of a daughter? She almost never even accepts a kiss from me, much less offers one herself. She has literally WIPED OFF every kiss I’ve given to her for the past year. I was so heady from the affection that I found myself continuing the game by asking, “Seconda, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said, absolutely breathless, “I will marry you Mommy. And now I will give you the kiss of love.”
Funny, I figured Sec would want to marry her Dad, since he more closely resembles Prince Charming and since she so clearly adores him and all. But no, she’s chosen me.
My sister came over this weekend, and witnessed one of our unending proposals of marriage. She, too, is utterly deprived of Seconda kisses and hugs, so she thought maybe she could get in on the action,
“Hey, Sec,” she ventured, “Will you marry me?”
‘I CAN”T MARRY YOU!” Sec shouted, chagrined, “I AM MARRIED TO MY MUDDER!”
So I know I slammed princesses yesterday, and today I’m feeling a little penitent. I mean, not all princesses suck. There are a lot of cool, kick-ass princesses who are pretty and have a good personality, so to speak. The whole package. And I’ve been slowly amassing an “unconventional princess” picture book collection to combat the Disney brigade. Here’s what I’ve got:
The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch
Classic Munsch, as they say on the cover. Girl outsmarts dragon to rescue her prince only to find out he’s a superficial “bum.” Man, Munsch is good. A real delight.
Princess Smartypants by Babette Cole
This is a funny one that appeals as much to my son as my daughter because of the various gross trials and tribulations Princess Smartypants puts potential suitors through, to win her hand. No one succeeds until Prince Swashbuckle who passes every test with flying colors; he doesn’t think the princess is too smart. But guess who gets the last laugh when Princess Smartypants gives him the kiss he’s been vying for and turns him into a big fat frog.
The Princess Knight, by Cornelia Funke
Violet is the younger sister of a bunch of boys, all of whom were raised to be knights but are pretty worthless. They mock her since she’s small. Never underestimate the little ones, I always say. She trains to be a knight, by night, with the help of the gardener’s son, and then enters herself, in disguise, in the contest for her own hand in marriage. She wins, of course. And then she runs off with the gardener’s son.
Princess Pigsty, by Cornelia Funke
Princess Isabella, sick of being pampered, starts the book off with a bang by tossing her crown in the fishpond and refusing to retrieve it. Her dad sends her to the kitchen as punishment, but as it turns out, she is happy doing chores down there and still won’t fish out her crown. Then he sends her to the pigsty, which is just about her favorite place ever. In the end, the King concedes to live and let live, and Princess Isabella gets to be exactly who she is.
Pirate Girl, by Cornelia Funke
Although not technically a princess tale, this is my favorite grrrrl power picture book. The illustrations are amazing and Funke is really at her lyrical best describing Captain Redbeard and his motley crew, the terror of the high seas, who one day capture a little girl who they really should have left alone. They bring Molly on board and try to collect a ransom for her, but can’t get her to divulge her mother’s name. Then one day, they find out who her mother is when Barbarous bertha and her harrowing crew of uber-tough pirate ladies easily overpower Redbeard’s team. My favorite line is when Barbarous Bertha asks her little girl, “What should we do with these piratical nincompoops?” We quote it often chez moi. I think I just identity very keenly with Big Mama Bertha,with a knife stashed in her garter and a mane of flaming hair. Raaaaar!
Atalanta, in Free to Be You and Me, is an oldie but a goodie . . . and I'm out.
Recently, my 2 year-old has a fixation on affirming her gender. She just says, “I’m a girl!” all the time, and I know that she means it in contrast to a boy, rather than in contrast to a hippo because she will say it to me too, “Mommy, you’re a girl!” and she regretfully informs her father, “You’re not a girl!” I don’t know what it means to her to be a girl, but I like how much she enjoys being what she is so I usually reply, “Yeah, I’m a girl too – hooray for us!”
She’s right too, that I’m a girl. Not just a woman, but a real girly girl. I wear lots of pink and plenty pf makeup and Chanel perfume, and haven’t seen my natural hair color since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I love my woman parts even if they aren’t what they once were, I love to dress up and shop for shoes and drink champagne and fruity mixed drinks.
But I’ve tried, to some extent, to shield Seconda from my relentless girliness because I live in fear of the day she’ll go all “princess” on me. Am I making enemies here? I know a lot of great, smart little girls who’ve succumbed to princess mania and it doesn’t mean they’re not formidable forces in their own right, but I have to say, the princess shit drives me nuts.
Its not that I don’t like the movie Cinderella – hell, it was one of my favorites as a kid, and we let Primo watch it a bunch of times – but with Seconda, I’m a little more hesitant. I don’t want to inject her with the parasite of putting pretty before everything else. What’s so great about Cinderella anyway? I mean, she’s compassionate and beautiful, but not terribly interesting. Not terribly bright or self-reliant. Ditto for Belle, although she’s got a bit more fire in her. And the Little Mermaid is fun, she’s a redhead after all, and feisty, a rebel even, but it does bum me out that she gives up her voice – I mean, could there be a more literal metaphor for the danger here? – to be with some guy who is, when you get right down to it, a total borefest. The interesting female character there is Ursula – she’s got a slamming voice and some great rhyming skills and is incredibly powerful. What power does a princess really have, at least the Disney variety? My daughter right now, is a powerhouse. She may not be the most well-behaved kid or the most generous yet, but she’s smart as a damn whip and funny, the kind of kid you’d like to spend an hour talking to. I will just perish the day she begs me to buy her a poofy princess dress and matching glass slippers.
So, when she looks really cute, and every girl instinct in me threatens to call out, “Oh you’re my little princess!” I instead exclaim, “You look like the queen of the fairies!” I don’t know how much good it does, but at least a queen has power and fairies do magic, and anyway, it’s a reference to Spenser, which mitigates any harm.
Now she’s started to proclaim the same thing, so after we slip a flouncy three-tiered sun dress on her, she’ll run around the house yelling, “LOOK AT ME - I’m the QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES!”
Nicole is a parenting writer who contributes essays and articles for magazines like Parenting, Parents, American Baby and Babble. She lives in Brooklyn with three children, one husband and a morbidly obese goldfish.
Posts
