Princess.

I stepped over the pile of worn-three-days-in-a-row sweatpants and t-shirt and opened the closet to find something requiring more effort. I slipped on a long dress and cardigan sweater before managing to curl my eyelashes and blow dry my recently trimmed hair. The cleaned up version of me felt awkward yet fresh. And it became even more obvious that I was out of my element when my son saw me and said, "Daddy, daddy! Mommy is a princess!"

I hate the title Princess. But in that moment, I've never felt so adored. Leave it up to a 3-year-old boy to make me feel like a million bucks. And I'll take it. Give him a few minutes and he'll be smearing snot across my sleeve, whining that he doesn't want to take a bath, reminding me that my life is far from royal. And let's face it, my days are consumed with ketchup stains and playing make-believe dinosaurs. Dresses, make-up, and blown out hair is better left for movie stars and drag queens.

And princesses.