I am not a particularly “girly” woman. I’m feminine and all woman baby, but dainty and foofoo and precious? Nope. I’m more Katherine Hepburn than Marilyn Monroe. So it totally makes sense that my daughter, fruit of my loins, would be a complete, pinkified, tutu-ed with a pair of glittery fairy wings, PRINCESS.

Hold me.

I never pushed the princess culture on her. Hell, I don’t even remember introducing her to it. I think the first Disney movie I played for her was Cars. But little by little, her royal DNA has taken over. If it’s pink, she likes it. If it has sparkles, Jesus, she wants to live in it. She notices shoes. Makeup. Clothes. Anyone in a skirt is a “pweeeeety pwincess”. She can recognize and name several Disney princesses, despite having never seen their respective movies. She talks all day about wanting to hug and kiss Pwincess Tinana and Awiel. And lately, the first thing she asks for after the boob and some breakfast in the morning, is her pink tutu and fairy wings. And she wears them. ALL DAY LONG.

I thought it would bother me a little, this obsession with all things pretty. But truth be told, I find it absolutely freaking adorable. It brings me such joy that she’s identified and embraced this part of her ever changing personality. I may not understand it, and the thought of the makeovers in my future is enough to make me shiver, but it’s her. And if she wants to prance around in a tutu and feather boa while she sings her ABC’s, well, who am I to judge? She’s the most perfect prettypretty princess that ever there was. Who also happens to be Asian smart, and tough as a Roller Derby broad.

Plus, she has showed quite the interest in bugs lately. Which, gross. But not pink.