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Little girl most definitely has a different drummer. This morning, she told me that from now on, I need to call her “Specialest Princess of all the World.”
Normally, I’d be annoyed, even if only by her bossiness and abuse of the -est suffix.
But since she started her statement by addressing me as “O Mighty Goddess,” I decided to just go with it. (Oh, please. You would, too.)
This afternoon, I was treated to a story about how “the crazy control dragon got electrocuted all of his memberies out of him. And then the Princess got to drive with NO LESSONS. [long pause] Even though she had no career.”
Don’t ask me where she learned about careers or their lack. She’s a freakin’ loon.
Yesterday, when I asked her to get dressed to come to the store with me, she said “I wear anything I want, Mommy?”
I said “Yes, of course.”
She came downstairs wearing her Ariel costume. With knee socks, shin guards, and soccer cleats. And proclaimed that she was the world’s first mermaid soccer player. So the mother of the world’s first mermaid soccer player took her to Kroger for her debut. She was a smashing success.
Currently, she’s stomping around the living room where I’m trying to watch Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, occasionally yelling “‘Specto Macromum!” (it might be time to get her ears checked?) and acting out something with her dollies (a diverse group if ever there was one: a Care Bear, 2 versions of Dora, two small bunnies with Velcro ears, whom she has stuck together, and a small porcelain doll with blue eyes and curly red hair, named Molly). The non-stop (although interspersed with mangled Potter spells) narrative has something to do with “simutations, lumulations, and braictical.” (I don’t know about the others, but she just told me that “braictical means ‘I have the sword of doom and will resist the monster.'”)
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that except “You go, girl!” with a chuckle.
She didn’t chuckle. She just reminded me that I’m supposed to call her Specialest Princess of all the World.
More than just being amused, I’m starting to realize just how much I don’t know about my own daughter. Is this just how parenthood goes? I’m charged with the care and feeding and boo-boo kissing of this tiny person whom I love more than I ever knew was possible, but the truth of the matter is, she doesn’t belong to me. She may look like just like Goat Daddy, or have my mannerisms, but she’s not a clone. She’s an alien a stranger.
I don’t think I’m just supposed to kiss her boo-boos. I think maybe I’m supposed to help her discover who she is. I’m okay with that. Better than okay. In theory, anyway. I just have no idea how.
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