"I don't like any of the princesses anymore. We should sell all of our princess stuff." This morning, either my firstborn daughter said this, or I had a break with reality and temporarily streamed audio from an antithetically parallel universe.
More likely the latter.
Or so I thought until tonight, when Brielle again renounced the characters to whom she has devoted hundreds of her hours--and our dollars. "Anyway," she said, her sigh dripping with nonchalance, "I hate all the fake princesses."
You'd think this would be a moment of triumph for me. The princess mania, with its focus on foofy adornment, aesthetic perfection and all things sappy, has been one of the few items on my Daddy-of-daughters gripe list. Just last night I was coveting the manly toys that my friends' sons were playing with, imagining how much more fun they must have playing trucks and tools with their little dudes than I have changing Disney doll dresses with my dudettes.
No more castles or balls or pumpkin-carriages or cheesy princes charming? That's what I'm talking about!
Or so you'd think I'd think.
But in a bizarre twist of fate, this morning's princess repudiation did not bring on the elbow-pumping, "YES!" it should have. Instead, I caught myself swallowing a lump in my throat.
Is this what it feels like to see her grow up too fast?