Princesses

Last night, as I was combing Dylan's hair after her bath, she farted on my leg and laughed.  Today, in her Pee-Wee soccer match, she repeatedly ran into the middle of the soccer-scrum, rooted around for the ball, body checked teammates and opponents, and chased down the ball, wherever it wound up.  When the whistle would blow, she'd get in a friendly shove match with her friends on the team until the entire team was rolling in the grass.  All this is from the girl who wants to be a ballerina when she grows up and considers herself a princess.  And not some phony Kate Middleton princess, but a real one who wears pink dresses every single day and never takes off her tiara.

This princess fantasy has been fed in a big way lately.  First, she was a flower-girl in her cousin Lacy's wedding.  Dylan was pretty certain that she was going to be the wedding's main attraction and called it "her wedding," or "my day."  When the four or five-hundred guests arrived, she she didn't falter -- they were there to watch her walk down the aisle.  I admired her confidence.

Grady was the ring bearer and Regina and I had our doubts that he'd even make it half-way (4:1 odds in Reno).  A 3-year old asked to preform any task in front of a large audience usually ends in a wet diaper and tears.  Grady must have taken aisle-walking tips from his sister because he strutted with the "ring" like a pimp strolling his turf.

We'd barely come down from the wedding-high (or, in my case, the wedding-hangover), when Dylan was asked to be the crown-bearer for homecoming.  I heard, "Dylan gets to crown the new queen," but Dylan heard, "Dylan is a princess and will wear a tiara and the entire homecoming parade and football game will be in her honor."  Of course, she was right.  In the parade, she got to throw candy to the fawning masses from the back of a '66 Corvette, and I'm sure she was thinking, "Let them eat cake," or something equally as queen-ly.

A few days previous, Regina took Dylan to a friend's house to borrow a princess dress.  There were poofy pink dresses and flowery gowns, but Dylan picked a red velvety one.  I was a little surprised that she didn't go with anything pink, until I realized that the dress came with a small sweater-thingy that had a white fuzzy trim.  That's right, just like Santa.  Dylan got to one-up ol' St. Nick and be the princess he could never be.

Dylan, with her escort and the previous homecoming queen and king, carried in the giant queen crown and, at the right moment, crowned the new queen.  I'm sure, as the newly elected queen pried the crown from Dylan's little fists, Dylan whispered something like, "Here's your crown.  For now."

Grady had nearly a good of time as Dylan.  He was surrounded by princesses.  There was one in particular that he had a huge crush on.  She, of course, was in the biggest dress of all and Grady was drawn to her like a housewife to a 50 Shades novel.  I had to pry him off of her just so I wouldn't look like the creeper dad who sends his son in for hugs on high-school girls.

Dylan and Grady were pretty quiet in the backseat as I drove them home that night.  They'd both had a big day and the sugar and adrenaline were wearing off.  We'd just about made it to the driveway when Dylan piped up. "Dad?  I think this was the best day ever."  "I think you're right, princess," I said.