Daughters don't stay princesses forever

Mon, May 12, 2008    to del.icio.us

The weather warmed up enough last week that I was finally able to wear the spring jacket that I hadn't worn for a year. I felt something in the pocket, so I reached in and pulled out two small slips of paper.

I stared at the light-blue dog-eared pieces of paper for probably a full minute as a rush of memories came back to me.

The papers were dated May 4, 2007. It was on that day that my 4-year-old daughter, Evien, became a true princess.

The papers were ticket stubs for the Spring Lake High School production of "Cinderella." I took Evien to see the play because I thought she might enjoy an enchanted evening out with her dad. I never dreamed how much she would like it.

Since that day in early May, Evien's world has centered on Cinderella and princesses. Shortly after the play, my wife, Amy, bought Evien a copy of the Disney cartoon version of "Cinderella." We've watched it so many times, I feel like Jacques and Gus are a part of our family.

Every day on the way home from day care, Evien asks, "When we get home, can we play ...?" In unison, we say, "Princess."

"Of course," I say.

When we get home, Evien puts on her tattered, torn and stained gown that's getting snug in the middle and tight in the shoulders. She plays Cinderella and I play all of the other characters.

First, I start out as the wicked stepmother. I'm ruthless. It works to my advantage because I can always get Evien to pick up loose toys or books scattered across the floor.

"Pick up this mess!" I demand. An obedient Cinderella jumps into action.

Next, I'm the mean stepsisters. I pretend a letter has just arrived from the palace inviting every eligible maiden to the ball.

"Can I go to the ball, too?" asks little Cinderella, shyly.

I let go a hearty laugh. "You can't go to the ball in those rags," I tell her.

"But the letter says every eligible maiden," she reminds me.

"Very well then," I say in my best stepmother voice. "You can go if you finish your chores and you can find something suitable to wear."

Next, I become the fairy godmother. I wave my imaginary magic wand and fawn over Evien's beautiful dress. I dig through the toy box until I find a piece of plastic fruit and a stuffed animal, wave my wand again, and turn them into a coach and horse.

"You must leave the ball when the clock strikes midnight because everything will turn back to the way it was," I warn her.

Next comes my favorite part. I get to be the prince.

The princess and I dance a little, I proclaim my love for her, and then I pretend to be a clock. "Bong. Bong. Bong."

Little Cinderella runs off leaving a Dora the Explorer sandal behind. I pick up the sandal and find Cinderella hiding in the kitchen. I place the sandal on her foot. It's a perfect fit. Then I carry her off to be married.

My oldest daughter, Natalie, is 22 years old now — but when she was 4, she was Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz" and I was all the other characters. As Scarecrow, Dorothy would help me up when I'd fall. She'd oil my joints when I was Tin Man, and she'd pretend to slap me when I'd lift my fists and say, "Put 'em up. Put 'em up."

I was Good Witch Glinda, the Munchkins, the flying monkeys, and the Wizard himself. Natalie would get some water on her fingers from the sink and flick it on me. As the Wicked Witch, I'd cackle painfully, "I'm melting! I'm melting!"

I loved my roles in Natalie's play. I wish we could have played together forever — but as she entered upper elementary school, her priorities changed. Her friends became more important and pop culture encroached upon our fantasy world until I became a mere stand-in in her play. As she approached junior high, I was written out of the script completely.

As an adult, Natalie has a boyfriend, a job and bills of her own to pay. I don't get to see her as often as I'd like to. And although my name still appears in the credits of her life, I'm no longer her Wizard of Oz and she's not my pig-tailed little girl from Kansas anymore.

The ticket stubs in my hand seemed too precious and significant to throw away, so I placed them in my bottom dresser drawer with all my Father's Day cards, special drawings and trinkets I'd received over the years from my kids.

Someday, many years from now, when Evien's in college or has a family of her own, I'll pick through that drawer and reminisce. I'll come across two worn and faded Cinderella ticket stubs and I'll remember — remember a time when Evien was a princess and I was her prince.