When my son was born, we received a picture frame that said, “The Prince Has Arrived.” Insert eye roll and sarcastic comment from my husband here. To put it mildly, he does not agree with the concept of monarchy. So you can imagine his disdain at the media frenzy over the birth of the newest prince. I, on the other hand, find the royal family fascinating. It’s probably because as a young girl my head was filled with romantic tales of princesses living happily ever after. Who wouldn’t want that? Royal gowns and jewels? Sign me up. Living in a palace filled with servants at my beck and call. Yes, please. Attending banquets and garden parties? It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. Then there’s the whole strengthening national unity thing. I could do that. It sure beats my boring life. Or does it?
Girls’ night out turns into tea and crumpets. And there’s no chance ever for a Long Island iced tea. And I bet I’d have to wear a corset under those fancy dresses. I could never take my kids to the park or to a movie. And there would be no date nights at the sushi place down the street. Heck, I couldn’t even walk down the street without being swarmed by paparazzi.
But then the realization hit me: I am the queen.
I’m the ruler supreme of my household with young, royal subjects at my beck and call. Scratch that, I’m the servant too. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Maybe for a day. Yes, it would be perfect to be queen for a day, and then I’d go back to my perfectly normal life.