Claire is a princess. Either that or the second coming of Queen Elizabeth I. I have often heard children are born with their own distinct personalities, which can only partially be influenced by their parents. My 17-month-old daughter has a buoyant cheerfulness mingled with an imperiousness I don't believe is entirely due to her age.
When Claire was first born, I couldn't resist singing, "Here she comes, Miss America ..." as the nurse would wheel her into my room to be nursed. She did not suffer to remain with the other babies in the hospital nursery, considering them mere peasants, but instead, resided at the front desk in her little transparent bed, the darling of the staff.
Over the past few months, with her singular sweetness, Claire has charmed the dedicated employees at our local Target. Riding backwards in the child seat of the shopping cart, like the figure head of a 17th century battleship, she gazes benevolently out upon her devoted populace. When Claire makes a new acquaintance, she invariably holds out her tiny hand to be kissed, as if she expects the adult to say, "Your servant, mum." She then regards her new subject with a slight frown, deciding whether to grace them with her royal favor. Upon her departure, she blows rapturous kisses to yet another adoring fan.
The only great-grandchild of her great-grandmother, as well as the only grandchild of each set of grandparents, Claire receives more than her share of attention. With the staff and elderly residents at her great-grandmother's assisted living home, she's considered something between a mascot and a celebrity, retaining a popularity rivaling that of Princess Diana. She condescends to toddle through the lobby, visiting with the residents and bestowing upon them spontaneous, babyish affection.
It is difficult to be the mother of a reincarnated monarch. Sometimes I feel more like a lady in waiting. For instance, I don't change Claire's diaper; I make her toilette. Claire doesn't sleep in her nursery. She reclines in her boudoir. She doesn't eat; she dines. She turns up her royal nose at crackers but deigns to accept crumpets. Due to her separation anxiety, I don't leave the room before receiving her permission to withdraw.
Now that Claire is old enough to understand the word "no" and be disciplined when she disobeys, I am girding my loins for World War III. Despite the unutterable tenderness I feel for her, I know the next few months (years?) won't always be easy. I only hope I don't quail under her gimlet eye the first time she's forced into "time-out". I'm already gleaning advice from other parents on how to retain the upper hand (okay, get it in the first place), and, of course, any prayers would be appreciated. In the meantime, Claire will continue to occupy her throne in my heart ... at least until she has to share it with a younger sibling.
