Drama Daddy: So the Drama

My daughter, Clare, is a drama queen. I should say instead, I suppose, she’s a drama princess. At five years-old, she owns about six princess dresses, nearly as many pairs of dress-up shoes, dress-up jewelry, gloves, capes, hats, crowns, tiaras, and wands. She’s also collected, either as gifts or through our Disney DVD club membership, every Disney and Barbie princess movie made—including sequels—which it seems to me we watch constantly. For Halloween and birthday party themes, nothing but princesses and Barbies have had a close shot for the past three years.

If we’re going out to dinner, her first thought is to change into a princess dress. If I ask her to change her school uniform so she can play outside after school, a princess dress usually goes on before I tell her to change again. If we’re going on vacation, she’s sure to pack at least two of what? Yes, princess dresses. If she has a friend over to play, the dress-up closet is usually the first thing opened. It seems it’s important to be properly dressed for the formal playdate in her world.

But it’s not only the clothes that make the princess. Clare also has formal dramatic training. Until a few months ago, I worked in a theater that Clare visited with me from the time that she was about two years old. At the theater, Clare saw rehearsals and productions of Cinderella, Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, and Cats. The actors, designers and make-up artists were always quick to give Clare a flower, hair ribbon, or cat face so she could feel pretty special. She made her own debut walking across stage during Broadway Baby when she was only two and a half. And last summer, she was in a fish chorus in Seussical the Musical.

So, given the fact that Clare is dressed for the part and has spent a few years around the stage, it’s no surprise to Clare’s Mom and me that she can be a pretty good actress now and then. I’m not talking about reciting Shakespeare or even belting out Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. I’m talking about throwing her arm across her forehead and announcing, “I’m terribly exhausted.” Or dragging a lifeless leg across the floor after stubbing her toe and telling us that she couldn’t dream of climbing stairs on her own to go to bed in her condition. My wife might tell you that she gets this from me—but I’m more crazy than dramatic or emotional. Still, I can’t deny that I’ve probably passed down the theater bug.

How does a parent—particularly this Drama Daddy—deal with a drama princess’s offstage antics? As Snow White would say, “with a smile and a song.” And as the stage “carpenters” might add, something tells me “we’ve only just begun.”