Princessitis
~S@hmmy



Last week after putting the kids’ laundry away I turned the corner into the family room and had the fright of my life. I found my youngest prone on the floor, eyes closed, arms out to the side like she had just passed out cold. I yelled her name and rushed over to her, only for her to say, eyes still shut, “Shhh! I’m waitin’ on my fwince.” Having mastered China Doll’s dialect (Pl, Chr, Sl, Pr = Fw) my heart calmed a bit; I understood that she was saying “prince” and that she was impersonating Sleeping Beauty. The calm though was immediately replaced by a new anxiety: my daughter has taken her princess obsession to a frightening level.

Until that day, it has been cute that she insists on sporting her now heavily stained princess nightgown over her day clothes, complete with lopsided plastic tiara from Chuck E Cheese; that she calls her dad Eric or Fwince Phillip or just Fwince; and that after watching commercials for rejuvenating creams she turns to me and says, “We can get that, mom!” But the sleeping death incident coupled with a recent, impromptu, and deeply felt rendition of “Some Day My Prince Will Come” have me scared shitless. She’s only two and a half.

I blame sleep deprivation for rendering me too brain dead to catch it sooner. When I first put on her black Target Circo shoes and she said, “Oh, are these high heels?” I unconsciously replied, “Yep,” like I do to every question that might interrupt the “in the car now” momentum. I have been selfishly enjoying her extreme manors: it is refreshing having someone in my family say “please” and “thank you” sincerely and an occasional  “How is your dinner, mom?” But when I caught her standing by her doll house air kissing an imaginary prince, I shouldn’t have judged it as an improviser (her space work was perfect) but as a concerned mom because now she is actually kissing the TV each time Sterling Knight (seriously, are they kidding me with that name??) comes on to promote his new made for Disney movie Star Struck which drops Valentine’s Day. When I mention his name her eyes light up like mine do at piece of homemade rhubarb pie. So, as would any good parent who becomes aware of a problem, I had to determine the threat level. But does one measure girly levels? Of course, a musical.

Now, I didn’t choose just any musical. I chose the musical guaranteed to bore any 2 ½ year old within four seconds- Fiddler on the Roof. We caught it during Act 1; Lazar declares he wants to marry Tzeitel not buy a cow. Note: no music playing, just dialogue. Reaction: China Doll slowly walks backwards to my lap, “Mom, can I watch this wif you?” End of Act 1: The wedding. China Doll begins swaying to “Sunrise, Sunset”, then she joins the men dancing like she too has a bottle on her head. Rating: My daughter is not just girly, she is the gay son that I desperately wanted, but will never have. Some of you may be saying, “Wait, why would you readily accept a feminine son but not an overly feminine daughter?” Simple. My gay son would have an accelerated version of my lacerating wit (I’m drooling at the thought) and would easily tell me at age 80 that I need a new wig and a new boyfriend. My overly feminine daughter will be too busy quietly resenting me.

My sister told me that this is karma, that years ago I traded my femininity for masculinity in order to be taken seriously in the male dominated world of business then comedy. Uh, duh. How else could I have handled a male comic introducing me by thanking me for the blow job back stage (“Charity work” took the house back nicely). I spent most of my life as a blonde but had very few people tell me blonde jokes- if they did it was with great trepidation and usually preempted with a disclaimer. My sister said, “You don’t need to be that way anymore. You have to work on becoming more vulnerable, innocent and trusting in the coming years,” meaning she thinks I need a vasectomy. “I don’t really see how that will benefit me at all,” I replied. She sighed.

My theory has been that to get anywhere as woman, I need a set of balls. Have you ever heard someone say,” That Oprah, she’s got some boobs, huh?” Well, okay, Oprah does have a nice rack, but her balls are bigger. Sleeping Beauty…innocent, trusting, vulnerable…no balls. Snow White... the trinity, but no balls, which is why she is a total spaz in the forest. And if I were Cinderella, I would have shoved that scrub brush up my step mother’s ass years ago and hit the road. If I have a daughter who organically embodies all those qualities, as her mother, I need to retain my balls to defend her and protect her tiny, vulnerable self until she grows her own set, no matter how small. See, I wouldn’t have this problem with my gay son; he would be already equipped.

But, I promised my sister I would work on shrinking my balls although I have absolutely no idea how to do that. Be softer? More trusting? Stop wearing only black? Ugh. It is very hard to undo my personality of over 20 years. I like my balls. But I do see her point. I don’t really need them any more, except in future PTA meetings. Perhaps I’ll start by adopting some of China Doll’s girly ways. I mean, it was nice to have an excuse to watch My Fair Lady yesterday. There’s a part of me that simply adores a good musical.