(An actual conversation last week while hanging out with my two youngest at Chick-fil-A. The name of the little punk juvenile delinquent has been changed because I can’t afford a lawsuit.)
Haven (four years old): Daddy, am I your princess?
Me (heart morphing into a puddle): Yes baby. You know that you are.
H: And I’m Mommy’s princess?
Me: That’s right. You’re Mommy’s princess too.
H: AND…I’m Ryan’s princess.
(Everything in my world comes to a halt. My vision goes blurry. My head starts spinning. If this were a party, the record would have just scratched to a stop.)
Me: Um. Uh. Who is…what…ah…I need you to…WHO IS RYAN?
H: Ryan is a boy in my class. And when I do this (she tilts her head back, eyes to the ceiling, and shakes her ‘fro back and forth) he just laughs and laughs.
Lord. Have. Mercy.
I’m not ready for this.
Ryan, I don’t know who you are. But I know where you go to preschool. And while it’s technically illegal for me to come after you, I know some five year olds with fierce dispositions who could use some extra spending money.
You’d better keep a close eye on your kneecaps, kid. Stay away from my Princess.