The Rules (Junior Version)

As surely as Barbie gets her manicured claws into our daughters, visions of a fairy tale existence take up residence in their little brains. It starts off as a seemingly innocuous preference for pretty dresses. Then, before you know it, they're playing "Princess." And as everyone knows, being a princess means one of two things: either an odd affection for amphibians, or a big wedding.

I was only slightly relieved when she opted for the royal wedding. Then I watched as my 3-year-old daughter started her prowl for husband material.

Being the offspring of an intellectual (me! Shut up) she went about this puzzle in a very thoughtful way, examining her options in nearly scientific method. Never before had I suspected how complicated this marriage thing is to our tiny ones. Indeed, it seems there are a TON of rules.

"Mom, I'm going to marry YOU when I grow up!"
Isn't that sweet? But a bit of a problem, when you think it through. The question is which angle to take, when explaining the difficulties with such a plan.

"Oh, sweetie, that's so nice of you. But, you see, I'm already married to Daddy. You're only allowed to marry one person." Not technically true, but the legal explanation seemed a less appealing angle.

She furled her brow, understanding immediately that this wrecked not only her first spousal choice, but her second as well. Still, it never hurts to make sure. This is, after all, matrimony. Wouldn't want to leave any preferred stone unturned. "Then I want to marry Daddy?" She phrased it as a question.

"Sorry, Abby, he's already married to me." Uh oh. The look. The lip. The brow.  She's 3, and already I'm labeled as competition.

"Then I'm going to marry Max." It was settled.

"Well, the thing is, you're not allowed to marry your brother." Please don't ask why. Please don't ask why. Please don't ask why (cringe.)

"Kipper?" (Whew.) She's clearly grasping. Kipper is our cat. Plus, he hates her.

"Wait a minute - isn't there anybody in your class you like? It kind of works better if you stick to your own species."

"Lauren?" She asks.

Great. Do I have to go THERE?

"Here's the deal, Abby. You have LOTS of time to decide who you want to marry. You don't have to pick somebody now. Some day when you're grown up, you'll find somebody who you love SO MUCH you'll want to move away from Daddy and me, and live in your own house, and maybe start your own family!" I'm ready to move on to other topics, such as belly-button lint.

"Grandma?" She's not giving up. Well, Grandma's is perhaps the only other place she's considered living.  A practical choice with respect to the lodging issue, but no cigar.

"Grandma's already married."

She's getting agitated. Clearly, she hadn't expected it to take so darn long. Then my little Liz Taylor exasperates, "Well, I HAVE to marry SOMEBODY!"

Uh. Not exactly. But it doesn't look likely she'll give up, seeing as she's dressed in her best white nightgown, fistful of weeds, ready to go. So I offer, "How about if I write down ALL the rules about picking somebody to marry, and you can keep them in your room. When you're old enough to read, we'll cover them again, and see if we can come up with any ideas."

Her mouth is suddenly bunched up on one side of her face. Impatient? Suspicious?

"Okay, Abby, how's this: you have to marry a boy, not Daddy, and not Max, and you have to KISS him."

"EEEEWWWWW, YUCK!"

Problem solved. For now. Next time, I think I'll use the standard "Ask your Father."