I have always said that I will never read Cinderella to my daughter. I am not going to be the one who exposes her to the idea that Prince Charming is out there just waiting on her to lose her shoe. I will not be responsible for raising a daughter who expects that there is a perfect man with whom she will live a long life filled with romance, bliss, and well, happily ever after. Don’t get me wrong. I was raised on Cinderella myself, so I do believe in the fairy-tale. I have just learned the hard way that each of us makes our own happily ever after, and it is not always the best course of action to determine our happiness in comparison with a Disney character.
At age thirty-something I am still guilty of holding to the silly notion that happiness means fireplaces and flowers, excitement and ecstasy, tingling toes and thumping hearts, and that we can exist in this state twenty-four hours a day. Reality is that it is a rare, if not non-existent, occasion when I have been given flowers for no particular reason. I have spent some time in front of a fireplace but normally it involves marshmallows and hot dogs rather than wine and bear-skin rugs. Happily ever after simply does not come pre-packaged like we lead our daughters to believe. I can’t, in good conscience, perpetuate this lie any further. I want my daughter to one day meet the man of her dreams. I also want her to understand that he is not going to be perfect. None of us are.
Happily ever after is not a given. True love is not a prize that we win; it is a reward that we earn. The story that I want to tell my daughter goes something like this: Once upon a time, there was a regular guy. My regular guy, her dad, happens to be 6’3 with auburn hair and brown eyes. The tone of his voice is so deep that sometimes it is barely audible. He is honest to a fault, meaning there is absolutely no filter from his brain to his mouth. He is a gifted artist and has a work ethic that few men could match. He provides for our family as if his very breath depends on it. On the other hand, his idea of romance is asking “Do you wanna get naked?” He can be stubborn and sullen, can’t we all? And the down side to his work ethic is that he is away from home more often than I would like. He never puts his shoes in the closet, and he refuses to clean out the sink after he trims his moustache. I don’t look for him to come home from a twelve hour work day on a white stallion any time soon.
However, he has made some commendable attempts at romance. One of his finer moments came very early in our marriage when he called ahead to the hotel where we spent our honeymoon to make sure that Housekeeping put the oldest, most worn out, softest, slickest sheets they had on our bed because these are the kind I love. Then there was the time he bought tickets for, and suffered through, a local production of South Pacific just because he knew I would love it. There was also the time that he carved our initials into the old maple tree that resides in our backyard. Now that was romantic. Moments like these are the exception, not the rule.
The story I want my daughter to put her hope in is not the one where true love is exemplified by strolling through the woods singing love songs with the wild animals, but rather the one where a husband goes with his wife to the bathroom every night for a week because they have a wild animal, a mouse. Did I mention that this wife was eight months pregnant and going to the bathroom at night never meant just once? I don’t want my little girl to believe in kisses that will restore lives and voices. I do want her to recognize that some kisses are just that, but every once in a while, when you least expect it, you will share a kiss with your regular guy that will make you weak in the knees.
Real life romance is full of struggles; not with wicked step-sisters or evil queens, but with the everyday obstacles of making ends meet, raising children, and finding time to do laundry. I hope my daughter’s Prince Charming will save her from all the evil queens and wicked step-sisters in her life. Mostly, I hope he helps her do the laundry. In return, I hope that she folds his jeans and puts them away in the right drawer; these are the things that are important in my fairy tale.
I am going to tell my daughter a story that goes something like this: Once upon a time, there was a girl and a regular guy. They fell in love, got married, raised children together, made a home together; they had a few ups and downs along the way, but were there for each other at the end of each and every day and………they lived happily ever after.
No comments:
Post a Comment