You know that scene in St. Elmo’s Fire when Wendy (Mare Winningham) first brings Billy (Rob Lowe) home to her parent’s house for dinner and her mother whispers when she mentions anything tragic? No? Well cut to the chase, my daughter has discovered [whispered voice]… princesses.
It’s been percolating for a couple of months with other costumes, but this week with her cousins has pushed her into a rabid, fevered, full princess boil.
Her day is spent in head-to-toe princess regalia. The first thing she does after she wakes up and gets dressed is run downstairs, yank off her clothing and shimmy into the closest sparkling, frilly, and bedazzled gown she can put her sweaty hands on.
I. Hate. Princesses. They have squeaky voices. They stand for not much more than being pretty. They don’t have any friends. They’re often helpless in search of some prince to save them. I know that for little girls Eleanor’s age it’s simply about the sparkle and the glitz and the dress and the grandeur of it all. So I hate in silence and ooh and aah appropriately at each costume change.
I’ve put a few princess costumes on my Christmas list for her, and I can see from the twirling and hopping and laughing that she loves this new world of make-believe and fantasy.
But don’t be surprised if you hear me muttering under my breath or suggesting that being a queen (or doctor) is even cooler (they’re in charge).
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