My youngest daughter is a true princess. I mean that in the nicest of ways. Okay, sort of.
This morning as I was trying to get the trio into the van to get them to school the littlest one was not accounted for, so I called up the stairs; "Princess, (yes, I DID use her real name) we’re all ready to leave, let’s go." Her reply? "Well I’m NOT, so I guess you’re all just going to have to wait for me, aren’t you?"
Sure honey, let me know when you want the chariot to leave. Geesh.
When we got into the van, and I asked my team if they had their lunches she informed me that she didn’t and, just to see her mother’s head spin around a few times, she added that it was my fault that she didn’t have it because I hadn’t reminded her to take it. Right.
I returned back to our castle a few minutes ago to find that my older two kids had made an attempt to tidy up a bit before they left for school. My youngest one? Not. Her room looks like a bomb hit it. I guess the royal surf had better get on that too.
Now I love my princess, she’s happy go lucky, very bright, cute as can be and well, spoiled rotten.
Retraining is in order. Retraining royal children is a nasty and dangerous business, I only hope we all live through it.
Anyone know where I can buy a dragon?