We’ve been play-acting Cinderella in our house for weeks now, ever since the Disney version came into our lives via Netflix. C has played Cinderella every time, and she always waits on the stepsisters with a little more doormat-enthusiasm than I like (Girl, don’t let them, er, me, push you around like that!). And when she goes to the ball and sings “Some Day My Prince Will Come” I have to cringe, and not just because that song is actually from Snow White. Meanwhile I play every other part, drawing on my rusty high-school dramatic interp skills.

Today C finally learned that important lesson of childhood (and adult) theater—it is much more fun to play the villain, the foil, the bad girl. Why play Sandy when you can play Rizzo? Annie is boring, it’s all about Miss Hannigan. Cinderella is dull. The stepsisters are delightfully evil.

she-who-is, playing the stepsister: Cinderella! Wake up and bring me my breakfast!
me, playing Cinderella: OK, stepsister. [yawn, bring in imaginary eggs]
s-w-i: These eggs are too hot! Go put them in the microwave!
me: [mimic heating eggs in microwave, ignoring this lapse in logic]
s-w-i: I can’t eat these! Now blow on them!
[I blow on eggs, she mimics enthusiastic eating]
[s-w-i seems unsure what comes next]
me: Uhh, don’t you have some work for me to do?
s-w-i: No, go put on your pink dress so I can rip it up! Rip it up!
[I enter wearing “pink dress”]
s-w-i: This is my sash! You can’t wear this! Rip, rip, rip!

The drama continues with she-who-is playing the fairy godmother (“What’s the matter, my child? Bibby-bobby-boo!”) and the prince, who is too insipid to have any lines whatsoever. But clearly the ripping of the dress is the climactic moment, the rest is just dull denouement.

My daughter loves dress-up. She loves girly stuff, and Disney princesses have gained a solid foothold in our house. I’m an “everything in moderation” parent and not one to ban things outright—she reads Snow White and Cinderella, and also The Paper Bag Princess. But preschoolers are not creatures of moderation. I bought a little toiletry bag for the sleepover and she carries it around everywhere she goes. Most mornings she shows up with her two “nuggie” blankets, her doll Ellie, and her cup of water in tow. Lately she’s added the toiletry bag.

She needed some new underwear, and Target does not sell underwear without a licensed character on it. So I bought her some Disney princess underwear. There are seven pairs to the package, and they have the days of the week on the them, which makes me think of When Harry Met Sally:

Sally Albright: Well, if you must know, it was because he was very jealous, and I had these days of the week underpants.
Harry Burns: Ehhhh. I’m sorry. I need the judges ruling on this. “Days of the week underpants”?
Sally Albright: Yes. They had the days of the week on them, and I thought they were sort of funny. And then one day Sheldon says to me, “You never wear Sunday.” It was all suspicious. Where was Sunday? Where had I left Sunday? And I told him, and he didn’t believe me.
Harry Burns: What?
Sally Albright: They don’t make Sunday.
Harry Burns: Why not?
Sally Albright: Because of God.

Ours is a blasphemous set, with Sunday’s pair adorned by Sleeping Beauty.

Anyway, the princess panties are all she wants to wear. Saturday night she had a bath, and Tragedy! They were all wet in the washing machine. So R took one out and dried it with the hair dryer. I told him, “Here’s another Thing You Never Thought You’d Do, eh?”

Now, in anticipation of any harpies out there who are tut-tutting that we’re creating a little spoiled princess ourselves, she hears plenty of No. In this case she was totally exhausted from the sleepover the previous night and needed a little slack. We pick our battles, and hand-dried underwear was not a battle worth fighting at that particular moment.

But to satisfy our innate need to harp on something, here’s an article about Libby Lu, where 4-year-old girls can have their birthday party, get a makeover and wear slutty sequined outfits!

After the makeovers, the club counselors, as they’re known, lead the girls in a dance, teaching them to “shimmy down” and to “shake it, shake it.” Sometimes they arrange a fashion catwalk. The girls walk down the aisle of the store till they reach the front, where mothers hold cameras. Here, the girls fling one arm theatrically toward the ceiling. The song on the store stereo says: “Wet your lips/And smile to the camera.”

One eight-year-old had a party with 25 friends, who all got to the store via stretch limo. This year, a Hummer!

I’m speechless.