About two years ago, my mother gave Pea a Frida Kahlo doll. Frida has long been a favorite of my mother’s. In fact, one of the first things that my mother ever bought for Pea was a tee-shirt with a silkscreen of Frida on the front. I guess if you knew my mother, this would make so much more sense. All I can say is that the term “artsy fartsy?” I’m pretty sure it was coined with my mother in mind.

Frida the doll went everywhere with Pea, for quite some time. She was a beloved companion for a long time. She was referred to as “Feeda.” And then, my mother-in-law gave Pea her first Barbie doll. Ballerina Barbie, to be exact. Pea was entirely too young at the time, and so we had to remove the tiny shoes and the tiara. But she loved that little doll into the ground. Well, into the trash can, which is where I threw her when she became so damaged that I couldn’t bear to look at her another moment. Sound cruel? In all honesty, it was a relief. I thought to myself, “Pea is young. And out of sight, out of mind. No big thing. Moving on.” Sorry, I’m just not a “Barbie” kind of girl. And I never was. Because my mother wasn’t. I recall asking for a nurse’s kit as a kid. I received a doctor’s kit, instead. And the comment from my mom that I could be anything I wanted to be in life. “Even a doctor.” That I shouldn’t be “shackled” by being a girl. And “who told you that you could only be a nurse, anyway?” I think I was about four-years old.

And so, while I don’t necessarily encourage the Barbie thing, I don’t deny it to Pea. She was up for a little reward a week or so ago, for waking up in the middle of the night, and rather than stomping up the stairs to our bedroom to wake me up and ask if she could use my bathroom, she used her own bathroom. It was a big deal, so we headed out to the toy store. And spent the next 90 minutes inspecting each and every Barbie, pink Barbie Corvette, Barbie outfit and Barbie doll knock-off. Because I don’t want her sitting on a therapist’s couch in her twenties, lamenting how it’s all her mom’s fault for not letting her have a Barbie doll. Or a Disney Princess doll, either. She is, after all, only three. And her middle name is “fickle…” She’s ditched Barbie for greener, or should I say pinker, pastures…

That’s right, Disney is her current obsession – Disney Princesses. She knows them all by name. Knows them by hair color, dresses, sidekicks. Where she got this information, this vast knowledge of mass-marketing genius, I’ll never know. It certainly was not from me. She’s never seen a Disney movie or read a Disney book. But she’s in it, for good, at this point. And whereas she wanted to be a mermaid for Halloween about one month ago, which then became a ballerina after her first ballet class earlier this week, she’s now announced that she’s going to be a princess. A Disney princess.

I know, I know… all little girls dream of growing up, marrying Prince Charming, and becoming a princess, right? And they fantasize about their weddings, too, right? Parading around their bedrooms, a white pillowcase hanging from their little heads, pretending it’s a veil? Well, not this little girl. I dreamt of being a veterinarian. And up until the moment the Judge at my wedding said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” I never thought I’d actually get married, either.

And so, it’s somewhat ironic, to me, that I’m sitting here, a married woman in her mid-30s, with a daughter who just came into my office, cradling her Frida Kahlo doll like a delicate newborn baby, and announced to me, “shh… you need to be quiet. Belle is taking a nap.”

“Belle? That’s Frida, sweetie. Not Belle.”

To which she screamed back at me, “Her name is Belle! Belle, Belle, Belle! And you just woke her up! Be quiet!“

Yes, ironic is the word I’d use…