Keeping my prince card

My daughter is 9, which automatically makes her a recovering Disney princess devotee.  At least that’s what I’m hearing from moms who also have rooms bombarded with Ariel pillows and Jasmine bedspreads.  “It doesn’t last forever.”  They deliver this information like a verbal pat on my back with a reassuring smile.  They’re sick of listening to “A Whole New World” and “Can You Feel the Love Tonight”. Mending all those dress-up gowns is one more chore added to a never-ending list.  And I get this, I truly do.  But it’s a little different for a dad.

At least it’s different for this dad.  It’s not just because I work from home, either.  The pinnacle of the princess period ended before I started writing from home and I see only the remnants of it now.  But unlike my wife and all those other moms, I miss it.  I hated seeing it go because of what everyone swore would follow: the revocation of my prince card.  Oh, it’s inevitable.  I’ll be replaced because it’s the natural order of things.  I hate the natural order sometimes.

Every princess needs a prince or else she’s just playing make believe.  Now, you have to understand that I waited 20 years to get my prince card, and it’s not an easy thing to come by.  It’s only awarded to a father by his daughter, and then only if she’s really into playing the part of a princess.  Nobody was more into being a princess than my girl.

I had two suit jackets that hung in her closet: one I grew too chubby to wear in public and another was purchased at Goodwill specifically for dressing up.  Mom added dramatic brocade and gold buttons, plus plenty of ribbons that had no doubt been won for doing all sorts of valorous deeds while rescuing distressed damsels.  At a moment’s notice, I could transform myself from dad to whatever prince she required.  Mom would call me at work and give me the heads up.  Prince Charming for her Cinderella, John Smith for her Pocahontas, and Aladdin for her Jasmine: whatever prince was appropriate, that was me for the evening.  I’d arrive home and there she was, literally sitting by the door waiting for me.  I’d put on my suit jacket and I was my baby girl’s prince.

Every daughter is a princess in her father’s eyes, but not every dad gets to be a real go-to-the-ball, glass-slipper finding prince.  I did, and I loved it.  We danced and we drank grape juice out of wine glasses at the Royal Balls held in our tiny living room.  We greeted the invisible guests: we held ballroom dancing contests that we ALWAYS won, and a reporter who looked suspiciously like my wife was always there to interview us afterwards.  It was born of Disney’s films and my daughter’s imagination.  It was all make believe, but…I was her prince.  Me.

I woke up one morning and realized the princess parties had stopped.  It’s been years since I wore my special jacket.  No more little feet on top of mine as we danced.  She’s so smart and so beautiful and…so much bigger now.  And it hit me hard that everybody was right.  Things do change and I’m just dad again.  She’s too cool now and I’m…well, I’m just dad.  That makes me sigh one of those shuddering sighs that get stuck in your throat and make your eyes moist.

But I’m not turning in my prince card, not yet.  Last week, my daughter invited me to have lunch with her.  At her school.  In front of her friends, even.  I was prepared for all the dramatic eye rolling every time I said a dad thing that would prove how un-prince-like I really was.  It happens, they grow up.  Get used to it, dad.

But it never happened.  She clung to my arm as we walked to the cafeteria.  She smiled at me with the same excited blue eyes that melted me when we danced and I realized I’m still her prince, even if the title has changed.  How big can a smile get?  I thought I knew, but then she proved me wrong by inviting me to join her for lunch again this week.

So I’m keeping my prince card…and this goofy smile shows no signs of disappearing anytime soon.