The Princess With The Dirty Face

The Very Small Boy woke early at the weekend, his sleepy wails permeating my peaceful Sunday morning dreams. My heart sank; it was 6.15am.

“I’ll get him, you go back to sleep” said DH, getting out of bed and sighing resignedly.
“Oh! Thanks darling” I muttered, and rolled gratefully into the warm space he left behind, pulling the duvet up over my ears and drifting back serenely towards sleep.

Five minutes later, I heard the small pit-pat of bare feet on the bedroom carpet, and the Small Girl crept into bed beside me and lay down, all curly blonde hair and intense green eyes.

“Mummy?” she asked
“Yes, Sausage?” I replied sleepily.
“Did I have a good sleep?”
I looked at the clock: 6.27am. “Not really darling, it’s still very early. Let’s go back to sleep for a while.” I put my arm around her and tried summon peaceful thoughts.

“Mummy?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Can I have pancakes for breakfast?”
“Of course. When we’ve had a little rest”
“Mummy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Pancakes!” She demanded impatiently, a small finger prying my eyelid open.

I gave in; we got up and went downstairs, where we joined DH and the Very Small Boy, who was sitting in his high chair eating his cereal (“Bye bye!” he sang cheerfully to each spoonful before it disappeared into his mouth).

As I set to work whisking pancake batter, the Small Girl ran off to find her Cinderella dress so that she could eat her breakfast in character. She currently has something of a Princess obsession, which means that we have to endlessly act out various Princess stories, she playing the Princess and I the Evil Queen, Ugly Stepsisters and Prince, all in rapid and exhausting succession.

“Mummy, you be the Wicked Stepmother and you tell me I can’t go to the ball and I have to stay home and do the housework!” she demanded breathlessly after she had finished breakfast.
I sighed. “Why don’t I just put the movie on instead?” I suggested wearily.

“Yaay!” she cried, dashing over to the sofa and making herself comfortable. Then, wiping her syrupy face on the sleeve of her Princess dress, she flicked her other hand in my direction and demanded “Mummy, you go get my crown!”.

And as I trudged back upstairs to get my sticky little Princess her crown, I wondered how I could ever have thought that my children would belong to me. Because right from the minute they first drew breath and uttered their heart-rending newborn cries, those two little people have owned me entirely.