Apparently, the need for validation has been with me for quite some time.
A crown. A certificate. A sash. A trophy. A ribbon. And two parasols.
When I was young, my sister and I would sometimes go to my dad’s office on a weekend, where he would teach us Latin from the Cambridge Latin Course (of course).
She was his favorite, and I took advantage of the opportunity to tag along, as we are only 14 months apart (I am older). We were four and five, or five and six, and we were willing students.
I have fond memories of the office. We would have elevensies — my dad’s famous Scotch shortbread biscuits accompanied by the best cup of tea. When he’d leave the room to clean the tea leaves from the teapot, we would sneak extra sugar from the cupboard. Sometimes we’d wander downstairs and gaze longingly at the ice cream vending machine, pondering how we might be able to trick the machine into giving up its frozen goodness. On very rare occasions, he would buy us an ice cream sandwich from that machine. Oh, those were the best of days, and we felt so very rich when we were able to nibble on that creamy vanilla treat.
Often times we would draw pictures. Pictures of queens and princesses. Always they had that plunging waist with the billowing skirt. Imagine how thrilled I was as a teen when Gunne Sax brought their Victorian renditions into popularity around prom time. I never got to have one though. We were strictly rummage sale hand-me-downers.
How we longed to be something. Something special. To be accepted. To be worthy. To be honored. To be wanted. I don’t remember drawing anything but pictures of queens and princesses. My sister probably sees things differently, but in my eyes, she always was special, accepted, honored, and wanted. And I was not. She was favored. She has always been queen. And still is. (I love her dearly.)
I am queen too. There’s room for more than one queen in the land.
