Her Royal Wish

As a little giraffe, she insisted on being carried through most of the Boo Zoo, pulling off the hood to the costume each time I replaced it.

I borrowed a ladybug pullover and crafted the tutu myself, watching her run towards flickering jack o’ lanterns, glittered red tulle sparkling in the dusk.

Last year we fashioned a fairy costume from wings and tulle and glitter that found its way into our hair and clothes and fingernails for days.  I found a star shaped wand, but she insisted on the pumpkin.

This year, I hesitated. I asked what she wanted to be on Mondays and Tuesdays and Fridays, wavering between admiration for her staunch opinion and a churning mix of emotions about that opinion. Each time, she answered:

“A princess.”

And not just any princess.

“Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty or Belle or Tianna.”

A Disney Princess.

A princess drawn with shiny hair and wide eyes, a tiny waist and delicate features. A princess always paired with a heroic prince and a happily ever after.

What messages am I sending?  What is she hearing?

When she slides her small feet into my shoes, does she imagine a glass slipper? When I wield a blow dryer and a brush against my hair, does she picture the careful coif of a waltzing girl, waiting to be made a princess?

I offered to transform a black leotard and layers of tulle into a bee. “Cute! Maybe next year, after I am a princess.” I steered her towards an ice cream cone. “Mitt the Mouse is wearing that one.” I found a little pink fleece…something…maybe an elephant, before her glance aged ten years into the face of a teenager, complete with rolled eyes and an audible sigh.

“Cinderella.”

Then the text came, from a well-meaning friend: Disney princesses on sale.

I let her try it on, knowing I was giving in. Airy white and blue tulle, painted with silver swirls of glitter, ribbon-adorned sleeves puffing from her shoulders, sparkles reflecting light into the mirror, sparkles framing a face of pure joy.

“Mommy! It’s perfect. The mice will love it!”

So relieved she didn’t mention a prince, I acquiesced, not only buying it but purchasing a size that leaves room for years of balls and tea parties and more lessons about appreciating the inner sparkles as well as the ones littering our closet floor.

the prompt:

For Tuesday, reach back to a costume that made an impression.