My dad’s favorite story to tell about my childhood takes place in the midst of potty training. (Consider yourself warned—read on at your own digression.) I have no memory of this event and therefore no way to defend myself. But this is how Dad tells the story: He woke me up one night to help me use the bathroom. In a sleepy three-year-old stupor I resisted stating, “Daddy, I don’t need to go potty!” He took my hand and led me into the bathroom across the hall anyway. On the way there I kept up my chant: “Daddy, I don’t need to go potty. I don’t need to go potty.” We made it to the bathroom, where I, still chanting, peed all over the floor.
(Side note: Can we just appreciate for a second the fact that my dad tells that story with love and a laugh? Who smiles over the memory of mopping up pee in the middle of the night? I realize he might not have been laughing at the time, but if you know my dad and how level-headed he is, I’d put down my money that he was.)
My Dad’s other favorite story to tell about me (I have no memory of this either, but I like it better) is about my first day in primary. Apparently, they had all the new, little sunbeams stand up in front of the primary during sharing time and say their names. If you know me, what happened when it got to my may not actually be that surprising. I confidently announced to the whole primary, “My name is Emily, but my daddy calls me princess.”
So, thanks to my daddy, I have believed I was. have tried to be, and was treated as a princess since before I can even remember. My royal treatment continued all growing up. Three more daughters came after me, but I am the only one Daddy calls “my princess.” (Do I take too much pleasure than that? Maybe.) When I turned 16, my dad gave me a silver necklace with two heart-shaped pendants. One heart is smooth and has “Emily” in pretty cursive letters inscribed on the back. The other heart is covered in sparkling diamonds (that I happily pretend are real) and on the back in matching cursive letters says, “My Princess.” I love that necklace so much that I only wear it on special occasions out of fear of losing it.
Fast forward a few more years. I remember coming home from college one weekend with a nasty cold. When it came time to go back to Logan, my dad began offering me all sorts of food, medicine, and whatever else to take back with me. I laughed after declining yet another bag of freeze-dried ham and he said, “Hey, I’m just trying to take care of my princess.” *heart melts*
My princess it title is occasionally . . . okay maybe frequently . . . also used to gently tell me when I’m being ridiculous. For example, “Does that please the princess?” or “Oh, watch out, the princess is not happy,” or simply, “Well, alright then Miss Princess.” There is nothing like a well-placed princess comment to put me back in my place. That, or a round of the song, “Oh Lord, its hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.”
While I still feel like, and totally am, a little girl, quite a few years have passed since I’ve peed on the bathroom floor. And I think 21-year-old Emily appreciates being called princess by her Daddy more than 3-year-old Emily ever did.
In world where you can grow up to be anything, I hope I become the princess my Daddy always said I was. In world that can persuade you to believe anything, I hope I remember everyone around me is royalty too. In a world that loves competition and comparison in everything, I hope I treat everyone as the princesses and princes they already are.
Thanks for the royal treatment, Dad. I feel like the golden rule is set at an especially high bar for me now—I know what it feels like to be a princess and have to help others feel the same.
