The Story of the Pouty Princess

Here is the back-story to this picture of The Pouty Princess.

Rob is out for the night; I have both kids.  As I was preparing dinner Toby was having races with his Lego cars and Mia was emptying her dress up drawer and showering herself with Princess stuff.  Eventually she came up to the counter all clad in the usual get up – tiara, necklace, dress, sparkly shoes and bracelet.  This time, she sported an extra gem after happening upon a St Patrick’s Day ring. 

“Look, Mommy!  I’m a PRINCESS” (the typical start of most conversations with Mia theses days…)

“Oh, yes, look at that.  So you are.”  (I have yet to come up with an appropriate response to the aforementioned statement)

“I’m wearing a special princess flower ring.  It’s a DAISY flower.”

I was nodding in agreement when Mr. Know-it-all from the cheap seats chimed in,
“No it’s NOT a daisy flower, Mia, it’s a SHAM-ROCK.”

Our perfect little princess went from delicate-flower to angry-PMS-ing-Medusa in under a second.

“No it is NOT a SHAMROCK, TOBY!!!! It is a DAISY FLOWER!!!!”   (Said in a shrill, high-pitched wail.)

I would have conceded the point.  I secretly PLEADED for Toby to concede the point.  I crossed my fingers and toes and WISHED for Toby to concede the point.

But Toby is a boy of accuracy and honesty.  He stuck to his guns.

“Um…NO, Mia…that’s a SHAM-ROCK.”

The princess had a fit.  I could see where her mind was going: it was seeing red.  It was so desperate to make a point but so lacking in supportive arguments to prove that her new found green ring was a DIASY ring and NOT a shamrock that she came up with the only spark of clout she could muster.

“FINE.  I’m taking this OFF.”

And with that the princess was self-dismantling.  The newfound green ring (that quite possibly WAS a shamrock but which I will refer to as a daisy ring for the safety of my computer) was thrown onto the floor.  The sparkly shoes were kicked off. The necklace was angrily strewn onto her placement and the tiara was thrown across the table.

And THEN she crossed her arms and POUTED.

For one blissful moment there was absolute silence in the kitchen.

And then I burst out laughing. 

I couldn’t help it.  It was such insanity and such a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to prove utter nonsense that I actually FORGOT for a second that I too happened to be on the receiving end of this princess rage (I was reminded of that with the GLARE that my laughter received).

Even Toby looked up from his Lego race to see what would happen next.  I had to do SOMETHING before the pouty princess realized the mistake in her tactics, and so I did the only logical thing I could think of.

“I’m sorry, Mia,” I said, “I’m not laughing AT you I just think your pouty face is funny.” 

Deadpan stare in response.

“Can I take a picture?”

My strategy worked.  Mia is ALWAYS up for a picture.

“FINE.” She said, still not making eye contact with either myself OR Toby  “Hold on a sec…” she  muttered quietly before momentarily releasing her angry arm cross for the split second it took to put her tiara back on her head for the photo.

There are two morals to this story:

1.  A perfect princess should NEVER be photographed without her tiara on

2.  I live in a loony bin