The Peanut is a princess. Ask her, she'll tell you. Don't ask her and she'll tell you. And if you try to tell her she's not a princess, well, I hope you're prepared for the cutest little "go fuck yourself" face you've ever seen. My little perfect princess, face twisted in rage. Awwww.
She loves to wear dresses and tiaras and throw semi- benevolent tea parties for her subjects. Sometimes she's Princess Peanut; other times she's Cinderella. She's never seen the movie or heard the story, mind you.
She is the only princess in the house, too. The. Only. Princess. She's the Princess. Mommy is the Queen, I'm the King, and the Pman is the Prince. Any attempt to violate these rules is met with extreme prejudice. She practically morphs into a vampire. Fangs dripping with sparkly pink fury. The air awash with consternation and glitter
"Daddy, I'm the Princess and you're the King."
"Let's both be princesses."
"No daddy, you're the King, I'm the Princess."
"Can't I be a princess too?"
"No daddy! You can't! You're the King. I'm the Princess."
"Ok, I'm the King. I'll be the King of Princesses."
"NO DADDY! You can't! You're a boy and I. AM. PRINCESS!" (Princess of the Kingdom of Uptightville, apparently.)
At this point, her cheeks are pink with frustration and her voice has taken on the timber of a highly agitated wild cat. Princess Peanut: Gender Cop.
Until recently. Recently, their has been a small change of heart where one member of our household is concerned. Recently, the Pman has managed to schmooz his charming ass into the princess game. He looks lovely in her dresses. And shoes. And tiaras. Resplendent in gauzy pinks, royal purples, and flashy greens.
He copies everything she does. Spins to show us the dress. Calls himself Princess Pumpkin Man. He is a pretty little thing, too. Although, there is still something about him that says "boy." Little big-headed, round-bellied spark plug that he is.
After some initial violence, the Peanut is loving it. I walked into the playroom the other day to find her frustrated and him crying. Not because she was trying to rip the dress from his body or pummel him with the plastic tiara that is her royal birthright. No. The melee was due to the fact that for five minutes she had been trying to jam her white sandals with the flowers on top on to the Pman's feet. So he could have pretty princess shoes.
Now, my kingdom has not one, but two princesses to call it's own. The traditional gender roles have been torn asunder. Let the commoners rejoice!
It's good to be the King.