It started innocently enough. Dreams as a young child of being a fairy princess. Feeling myself having the grace and beauty of a prima ballerina (sans the mutilated feet), spending my days with the “nobles”, attending several tea parties with The Queen, always donning my tiara and tutu.
The changes happened slowly. The tiara and tutu were turned into “dress up clothes”. They were only to be used during slumber parties or when playing with the little sister. Then somewhere along the line it became uncool to be a princess. Most girls were coveting Olivia Newton John or Madonna. The princess gear was tossed in the back of the closet collecting dust with the barrage of stuffed animals. My heart was still aching for the sparkle of the tiara…the swish of the perfect spinning dress, but it was time to grow up.
So I did the right thing. I grew up. I got married (twice) and had kids (mine, his, and ours). I had jobs, bought a mini-van, and a house. I quit singing to songs on the radio. I wore grown up clothes and shoes. I even started wearing socks in the winter. I balanced my check book and paid my bills on time. My princess dreams were kept alive by my sister, a note card here, an ornament there…tiny reminders of what was in my heart so long ago.
And then some where in suburbia it hit me! I was not predetermined to be a boring, middle class wife and mother.
NO, I was born to be a Mother Freakin‘ Princess!