The Making of A Princess

My middle child is a princess. Over the next few days I will attempt to explain why Phill and I say this about her. I do not define her as such to disparage her. She is what she is, delightful, loving with a severe sense of entitlement unlike that of her elder sister or younger brother.

Example 1:

As I dished out the noodles, she frowned, "I'm not going to eat that. I don't eat noodles anymore."

I sighed, took the bowl away and didn't put up a fight. We'd been swimming for a few hours; all of us were tired with our own demands for food. I cooked a grilled cheese sandwich for her.

When I set it beside her, she paused before grabbing it. She contemplated the plate with the single sandwich, nicely quartered into right triangles. "Um," she said while gesturing with her hands, "I usually get a bowl of tomato soup with my grilled cheese."

Implied in that sentence, delivered with such grace that the Queen of England couldn't do better, was that I would soon deliver the bowl of soup. I didn't. She frowned at me most delightfully for the remainder of the day.