When a Crown Falls

My daughter used to wear a crown to daycare everyday (she’s 4.5).

She paired them only with “fancy” dresses. The kind that float and twirl, the kind that impractically reach the ankle.

At first it was cute.

Eventually Z and I exchanged concerned looks each time she insisted on this type of attire to school which again, was everyday.

Did this obsession belie her sense of entitlement maybe even superiority?

After all, she didn't only wear a crown, she insisted that when she grew up she would be a real princess and condemned me as her mother for not being a real queen.

At birthday parties for other girls, we would force her to abdicate for a day.

At first, her responses were tearful, even fitful with lots of kicks and “but that’s not fair!” energy. But eventually even these outbursts softened.

And then, as she got older, not infrequently one kid or another was mean to her, and wanted to wear her tiara. She realized on her own that perhaps claiming dominion over peers with rhinestone accessories wasn't the best way to make friends.

And as we approached a year, she pondered options.

“Mommy why don’t you wear dresses?”

“It’s just not comfortable for me.”

“Why don’t you wear a crown?”

“I’m not a real princess.”

“Ok, well I want to be like YOU Mommy.”

And that was it.

The spell was broken. She began to request shorts and shirts (“like mommy”) most mornings, and the stories of kids harassing her over her regal fashion, diminished.

It was a little sad but a commentary perhaps on what we all do, what we must do, to pave the way for easier interactions on this human level. We bring our self-conception down a couple of notches and we’re rewarded for it by peer acceptance.

This weekend, after months on the shelf, the tiara once again graced our daughter’s head. In the privacy of our home, away from the disapproving eyes of “commoners,” she put it on to watch TV. I smiled