Once upon a time, in a magical land far, far away called The Poconos (new family song: “You can’t pick your nose in the Po-co-nos”), the royal family decided to go skiing for a day.
The King has always been an excellent skier - technically skilled and beautiful to watch. The Queen, not so much, but she has fun and doesn’t fall too often and doesn’t get afraid of big drops (but Lord Have Mercy, how she hates the bumps). The Prince and the Princess first learned to ski in an even MORE magical land even farther away called Aspen because they have a fairy godmother who has a condo and lets them come visit. The Prince and Princess proclaim that they love to ski and swear up and down that they will not complain about the copious gear and apparatus with which they must contend when they partake in The Skiing.
And NO, that isn’t me on the ground back there!
Still and yet, Princes will be Princes, and sometimes even Princes will be Punks, and those Punks can get down and dirty into some Funks, because apparently I am now channeling Dr. Seuss, but also because they don’t like the way their long underwear is hurting them under their ski pants. Punks can get more Punky when they have not been properly fed and watered, also. Alas, when nothing available and presented to His Highness meets his approval, feeding and watering can be a challenge. Sadly, the Palace Chef had taken the weekend off and the Prince’s options were limited to “Eat THIS or THIS.”
Princesses will, inevitably, be Princesses. The most princessy of all Princesses will elevate Princessiness to new heights when her boots are “SQUANCHING” her delicate feet and her the sleeves of her shirt will not stay DOWN in her jacket but instead insist on riding UP near her elbows and it feels “YUCKY.” And then the tears begin, and once Princess tears begin, they can be very hard to stop. If you have can utter any magic incantations just in the nick of time, you might be able to quell the tide of tears, but you will be left with a whiny residue for about an hour and a half.
The King and Queen, having cajoled the Punk and the Princess onto the lift and up the hill, pointed everybody’s skis downward, and gave those who needed it a hearty shove. For a full forty minutes, all was joy and laughter in the kingdom.
Until the Princess decided that she was hungry and the Punk decided he had to use the bathroom but he didn’t feel like taking off all his clothes so just forget it. Much hilarity ensued, and by “hilarity,” of course, I mean “whingeing” and “bitching” and “pouting” and “backtalking.”
The King and The Queen were starting to lose their shit patience. The King managed to convey to the Punk and the Princess the importance of “going with the flow” and “having fun” and “not getting the snot beaten out of them in public by their parents.” The Queen was too irritated to say much, although the Court Jester reported later that she was muttering things like, “ungrateful little wretches…they are spoiled rotten and always want more more more and never say please and never say thank you and this is the LAST time I take them anywhere fun…and they’d better change their attitudes double quick or ELSE.” That Court Jester never misses a thing. (Note to self: Have Court Jester killed).
The Princess and the Punk were having a very difficult time getting their acts together. Worse yet, the Queen was so aggravated by the behavior of her offspring that she was rapidly becoming toxic. After a few more runs, and a few more tears, and some more whining, and some more muttering, and some more arm waving, and some more stomping about, the King decided to hit the top of the mountain for some solo skiing. The Queen agreed to bring the Princess and the Punk into the lodge for a snack.
The Princess and the Punk attacked their hot chocolate and brownies and the best gd Rice Krispie treats any person, royal or otherwise, has ever had the pleasure of enjoying. The Queen sat back, letting them be princessy and punky, and they weren’t bothering anyone, and they weren’t hurting each other, and they asked now and again if the queen would help with a sock adjustment or a long underwear fix or a hair re-do, and the Queen, now more relaxed and calm, was happy to help. And the Queen realized something.
Sometimes, the Princess and the Punk are just being who they are, and it’s the Queen who has to adjust her attitude and her expectations.
That lady behind me had a stack of junky magazines, a diet coke, and a mess of
cookies. I think she had the right plan.
And they all skied for the rest of the day happily ever after.
