The Tiara Was Simply A Formality

My sister—the kind of aunt who pays attention to detail—sent a Valentine’s Day box to my children last week. She took the time to write a separate, personal note to each of my four kids, and filled the box to the brim with novelty candies. But the centerpiece of the package brought squeals of delight from my daughter, and groans from my sons: a tiara! A most glorious plastic silver tiara, sparkled and oh-so-regal, complete with the little comb-tooth ends so that the tiara may adhere firmly to the princess’s delicately coiffed hair. I watched as my daughter, on a rare occasion of both breathlessness and speechlessness, placed the tiara immediately on her head.

The Princess, crowned Queen—after a lifetime of waiting to take the throne.

I have to hand it to my boys, who until recently, lived in a very cloistered environment where all things were Star Wars, Legos, and trucks. They did not have to deal with anything Barbie or girly. So, when the princess was born two years ago, it literally turned their lives upside down.

But this was too much. The tiara seemed to empower her even more, and she boldly began pointing to each brother, barking her commands. “Milk!” she screamed. “Now!”

My eldest looked at me, slightly amused. He gave me a look as if to say, “Is she serious?”

One by one, heads shaking, and eyes rolled heavenward, they left the room. The Queen shouted at them for a while until she sensed they were not coming back to her empire. She lost interest. In a brief moment of generosity, she turned to me and placed the tiara on my head. I worried that my huge Mommy-sized noggin would snap the thing in half, but she insisted. “Watch, Mommy,” she told me, very seriously. And out in the center of the area rug, she raised her hands above her head and twirled. As all queens do. I imitated her, and she seemed satisfied. All queens need their lady in waiting, after all. But as soon as my first queen lesson was over, my daughter reclaimed what was rightfully hers, and stuck the tiara back on her head. I noticed that instead of resting gracefully on top, she prefers to jam it across her forehead, perhaps to lessen the chance of some jealous underling stealing it from her royal head.

I sigh. Who will this little queen become? But I have no time to ponder that right now. The pointer finger is directed firmly in my face.

“Milk, Mommy. Now!”