I can’t stop thinking about the Royal Wedding.
You bet your tushy we watched it. A friend came over with fascinators, homemade scones, and clotted cream. I broke a cardinal rule of parenting and woke my daughters up on a weekend morning, and we turned on the TV an hour before the ceremony even started.
My husband thought it was all a bit ridiculous, so he stayed in bed. His loss. (Actually his win, because #sleep, but whatever.)
I loved it. I loved the celebrity sightings and the page boys and flower girls and Harry’s beard and Meghan’s dress and the tiara (OMG THE TIARA) and the singing and the preaching and the carriage ride and the commentary and I loved every single minute.
Mostly I loved Meghan’s mom. I was riveted, and not just because she’s a social worker and yogini. *Swoon.* I loved her because she managed to look gorgeous and poised and strong and collected while at the same time seeming vulnerable and scared and unsure and totally relatable.
I kept imagining what it must have been like for her to be there, on that day, watching her only daughter marry a prince. In a castle. And not some BS sorta-kinda-prince in some dusty old castle. We’re talking PRINCE HARRY in Windsor Freaking Castle, people. This was the real deal, and Doria Ragland literally had a front row seat. She must have been freaking out. Actually, she sort of looked like she was freaking out, but in the most composed way possible.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I looked over at my daughters. They were sprawled on the couch, arms and legs draped in all different directions. There was definitely a finger up a nose, and I’m pretty sure there was a fart, too. I looked back at Meghan who beat all the odds not once, but twice, first by becoming a successful actress and then again, by becoming the first biracial American divorcee to marry a royal.
I glanced back at my daughters. Despite the fact that I have no royal aspirations for either of them, I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell I’m supposed to get them ready for such a life. I mean, if it could happen to Meghan and Dorea, it could happen to us, right?
I thought about meal time; they still don’t remember to use their forks with any consistency. And their language. OMG I have to work on the language. I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it’s proper etiquette to respond to the Queen with, “So is your face. HAHAHAHAHA.”
We’re screwed. One might even say we’re royally screwed.
You can read the rest of this post over on my Mindful Parenting blog on PsychCentral.com.
