RAISING THE QUEEN

I don't have a son. It didn't matter to me the gender of my child. There were no royal male succession issues in my largely matriarchal family and when the roll of the dice came, it was a young queen.

She bounced past "princess" to queen almost from birth. Even before she was fully articulated, her translation of "happy birthday to..." was "aba du," and when I'd say happy birthday to her, she'd say "aba du you too, da-da."

Intuitively understanding the royal "we," she felt that if it was her birthday, it was everyone's birthday: a state holiday. And she'd let them eat cake.

When taking home movies, I'd ask my daughter to give me a kiss and she'd wobble up and slobber-smooch the lens. Consequently, like Jacques Cousteau, she always appeared in-vitro. Lens wipes outnumbered baby wipes in our household.

As the court photographer, I took so many home movies, she thought her dad lived somewhere inside the camera. Even if the camera was sitting by itself on the counter, she'd walk up to it, peer inside the lens, and ask for me. A little tiny father sat in a tiny little chair just the other side of the lens.

Being "boo-boo" challenged, my daughter was obsessed with potential injury zones. Vulnerable spots she'd preemptively cover with Band-Aids. Like a chain chewer of gum, my young daughter became a chain user of Band-Aids. We'd go through several boxes a day.

I could always find my toddler by following the trail of Band-Aid wrappers. When I finally caught up to her, she'd be wallpapered in Band-Aids, looking like Nephritis' mummy.

Potty training was a breeze. My girl had a little plastic toilet that traveled, and I can still see her sitting on her throne waving to the passersby from the shoulder of the New York State Thruway.

The girl was definitely of regal blood. Early on she loved having servants and would feign fainting when their obsequiousness wasn't up to snuff. She demanded obedience -- always. Thinking she was possibly spoiled, I took her to a baby therapist.

After the $400 session, the shaken therapist informed me that my daughter really was a queen in a past life, and that I had better befriend her now before her palace guards had "issues" with me. To drive home "issues" point, the therapist had signed the euphemism with air quotes.

The girl always loved animals, and our home soon became a menagerie, with goldfish -- then tropical fish, and dogs -- then more dogs, and parakeets -- then cockatiels and parrots -- not to mention the rescued wild animals that had zigzagged in front of us just before "Daddy ran them over with the car."

We had pony parties for her where it always rained, and the pony tender would leave early before the eager guests arrived, and we were left with 20 whining brats and nothing but imprinted horse napkins.

Soon, my young queen started riding horses in earnest-- as royalty often does -- and she is quite the equestrian today. I don't like animals that weigh over a thousand pounds; especially those with brains smaller than a Chihuahua's, but she connects with them. I don't like Chihuahuas much either, to be honest, though they don't need to be trailered -- but enough about me.

By middle school, my daughter was found to be fast as a quarter horse. She joined the track team and was soon beating not only the princesses, but the princes as well. Not content to have anyone else in the number one spot, she would swiftly put those in front behind.

Now in high school, the attitude thing has fully kicked in, and I have become a wallet-in-waiting. Irrelevant at best, and an embarrassment the rest of the time, I drive her around in a chauffeur's outfit (she insists I wear a uniform so as not to be mistaken for her father). This is not unusual in our rich town where many kids are picked up from school by licensed taxi cabs. I think it would be cheaper to FedEx them home, but who am I?

These days my influence is no longer influential. Mostly, I try to protect my queen from injury. The Band-Aids are gone now, and the hurts have become real. Thankfully, the memories still hold court.