Princess Parade

“She doesn’t play dress-up. She reigns.” —Court Jester Kate, currently bowing to a toddler in plastic heels

She doesn’t play dress-up—she enters with BOSS BITCH in her veins. She’s got a gown for every royal in the kingdom and if she doesn’t? Oh, she’ll just snatch something vaguely color-coordinated from her closet and gaslight us all into believing it is Belle’s. Don’t fight it. She will win.

“This is trifficult,” she’ll say, arms tangled in a puff-sleeve fever dream. So I step in. I zip, I button, I adjust the crown. I retrieve the shoe like some medieval footman who better know his place. And when she’s dressed? We don’t just go about our day. No, no. We enter the playroom like it’s the damn Met Gala.

She insists on a full presentation, and honestly? I live for this shit. Sometimes I present her like she’s the Queen of England with sixteen made-up middle names. Sometimes I channel my inner WWE announcer and shout her entrance like she’s about to body slam a dragon. Occasionally, I introduce her in various animal languages. It depends on the vibe. It’s always a vibe.

She doesn’t just wear the outfit—she becomes the character. If she’s Elsa, I’m basically some forgotten Arendelle extra. If she’s a troll, I’m a tree stump with emotional depth. Everyone gets assigned a role, and she remembers it. Every. Time. Switches identities like a method actor on Adderall. Honestly, it’s kinda terrifying how fast she can shapeshift.

And listen… I know we’re all supposed to be in our “let kids be kids” gentle parenting era, but nothing prepares you for introducing your niece at the grocery store and hearing her proudly tell the cashier her name is “Branch.” Like deadpan. Like that’s what’s on her birth certificate. And I just nod. Because yes, bitch. Be Branch.

Her everyday wardrobe is already a whirlwind, but don’t even get me started on the fancy dresses—the ones so poofy they can’t fit in a car seat. Belle. Elsa. Anna. Each one with more tulle than the bridal section at Hobby Lobby. These require ceremony. I am her dresser, her stagehand, her lowly subject. She adorns herself with plastic jewels, clacky heels, a wand, a tiara, and then—with all the grace of a toddler on a mission—she glides to the playroom, awaiting her cue.

And I better not fuck it up.

💣 Truth Bomb:

She’s not pretending. She’s creating. Commanding. Becoming. And I’m just lucky to be part of her kingdom, crown optional but deeply implied.

✨ Auntie’s Raw Take:

This child has the kind of imagination that could power a small planet—and a memory like a fucking steel trap. She’ll forget to wipe but somehow still remembers exactly which Disney character you were assigned four costume changes ago. And she expects you to commit. Because she sure as hell does.

Watching her be fully in it—whether she’s a royal badass in plastic heels or a snarling troll with attitude—is like watching lightning strike the same spot over and over. It’s magic. And it melts me.

But I can see it in some people’s eyes: they don’t get it. They get annoyed when she insists on calling them “Hei Hei” or “Cloud Guy”. They roll their eyes when she corrects them for breaking character. They don’t see it for what it is—an entire universe in motion, built from the glitter-dusted gears of a tiny mind working overtime.

Well guess what? I do.

She’s not being “extra.” She’s not being “bossy.” She’s not “too much.” She’s being brilliant. She’s world-building, baby. And if you can’t hang, then sit your boring ass down and watch the show in silence.

I will never dim her shine to make anyone else more comfortable. If she wants to be a fucking princess-dragon-mermaid hybrid and rename me “Sloppy Joe the Friendly Shadow,” then that’s my name for the day. End of discussion.

Because the truth is? If we’re not careful—if we don’t nurture this fire and stand out of her damn way—she’s gonna outgrow us, outsmart us, and out-fantasy every last one of us.

And honestly?

Good.

Let the next generation reign.