My timid-looking (don't be fooled) two-and-a-half-year-old daughter was incredibly happy to have the slide all to herself when a three-and-a-half year old, husky girl forced her way in front of her to take over the slide.  Curious, I watched.

Patiently, my daughter watched as the bossy, dressed in a green, frilly dress, bow in her hair and a shiny green necklace seated herself at the top of the slide, squeaking down as her dress climbed up.  Her mother and I were chatting as she nearly came to a halt midway down.  

Her mother chuckled at how the friction refused to let go, but her princess refused to wear anything but dresses.  Her name was Annabelle, and when she grew up she wanted to be a princess.

The next two times down were almost comical, as I silently enjoyed the show.  Annabelle would sit at the top for a prolonged period, ordering my daughter to “back off” and “let her go by herself.”  My tiny daughter finally barked back, “Go then! Go then! I want a turn.”

A few times of this, I watched the large princess become stuck and laugh when my perplexed daughter would become agitated.  Her mother was going on and on about how very much her daughter truly was a princess.

Finally my daughter had enough, I suppose.  The girl sat at the top for quite a while before agreeing to go down.  Her mother giggled at how cute the bickering children were, and I told my daughter to wait her turn.  Halfway down, the princess squeaked to a halt.  “Go! Go!” my daughter yelled, terrible-twos making their presence known.  The princess giggled again—until the story took a terrible turn.  A smirk, which I recognized as my own, crossed my little angel’s face just before she pulled her hands out of her pockets and let hundreds of pieces of gravel fall... twirling and tumbling down the corkscrew slide.  A terrible racket which scared the princess, who was too afraid to move.  Eventually when the rocks began pelting her pretty dress, she did.  My daughter followed, clearing off the rest of the gravel with her feet.

I smiled to myself as she ran to me, arms open, turquoise sunglasses bouncing on her face.  I could hear the other mother, “Oh my princess, it’s okay.”  She turned to me, glaring. “Who does your daughter think she is? She’s definitely not a princess!” she blurted out.

I wondered if she thought all little girls dreamed of being a princess. "No," I told her, "She claims to be her seven-year-old brother."  And then as if to accentuate the remark, my daughter belted, "My name is Cameron!" The thing is, she gives him a run for his  money.

Regardless of this being considered “rude,” there are times when I wish I could throw gravel at people... the woman at the check-out that sends her son to find one more item before the cashier can finish ringing her up and the line is getting longer; the Post Office when the line is forever long, there’s only one person at the counter, and the never-ending line waits while the customer can’t decide on which designer stamps she wants to purchase.

Sure, life is too short to waste on getting angry.  I agree with that.  But darn it, old people have less time to live, so shouldn’t they drive faster?  I guess my daughter has my personality!