It’s good to be king, or is it?

So you want to be King? It helps immeasurably to be born into the Royal Family so you can mark that off your “to do” list Royal Baby. Well done! Fame. Now, you probably don’t realize it yet because you’re an infant and, as such, permitted to sleep on the job, but most people aren’t surrounded with quite as much fanfare as you are.

This isn’t to say that you aren’t in good company. Your average peasant child, for example, is used to being photographed roughly 10,000 times per day by a variety of cell phones and cameras. Your parents, on the other hand, would technically never have to take a photo of you at all.

They have the paparazzi to do that. What this means to you is no nose picking. Ever. You eat one booger caught on camera and you will be known as “Prince Picks A Lot” until the end of time.

Now, like many Americans what I know about your family you could stuff in an olive. This doesn’t prevent me from THINKING I know all about your family, however. For example, I am picturing you living on the set of Downton Abbey right now. I’m also pretty sure that at some point in your life you may be required to wear a kilt (sorry about that).

No pressure. Finally, in America we plop our children into “strollers” whereas the paparazzi will spend their time popping out of bushes trying to catch photographs of you in your “pram.” It’s all terrifically Mary Poppins-ish and we are truly excited for you.

This is going to be fun! Here’s looking at you kid. Every minute of every day of every facet of your life. No pressure, but you better make sure your kindergarten crafts are up to par. When all the other kids make macaroni art for their moms, you’re going to need to make a macaroni crown. At the very least, a tiara.

The royal ‘normal.’ Regarding paparazzi and general nut jobs (not to be confused although the comparisons are similar), my heart and prayers go out to your parents. They are among the “luckiest” people in the world — and also the most targeted.

I am the most common of commoners and yet was sure kidnappers lurked if I so much as took my hand off the shopping cart handle for a moment. Clearly my babies were perfect in every way and who wouldn’t want one?

To be an actual target of terrorists and specific craziness would be mind numbing. By this I mean be kind to your mother and don’t EVER play that toddler game where you “hide” and don’t answer when called. It’s not cool to alarm Scotland Yard.

Go easy on mom. Another reason to be kind to your mother is that to have your every move as a new mother hawkeyed and criticized by millions cannot be easy. I don’t envy her that. All mothers can recall the first hint of derision or hiss of criticism over some parenting transgression (“that baby’s too hot, too cold, hungry, tired, wet, and for goodness sakes PUT A HAT ON IT!”), I can’t imagine that magnified by the media and millions.

Your mother can’t even roll her eyes at the advice of the elders. In your lineage “who died and made HER Queen” isn’t a figure of speech. It’s most likely true. Naming rights. Speaking of rampant criticism by strangers, let’s talk about your name. I don’t know why it was such a big deal that your name wasn’t announced until more than 24 hours after your birth.

My own son was unnamed for three days and CNN wasn’t the least bit interested. Fortunately for you and apparently the rest of the world that waited with bated breath, your name was finally announced: “George Alexander Louis.” As royal monikers go, there are a few Albert’s and a Charlemagne lurking in your family tree.

You got off pretty easy. If you were American Royalty (a.k.a. a celebrity of dubious talent but much air time) we could have counted on something like “Chance Apple Jagger North Cambridge” or “The Infant Formerly Known as Prince.”

I think George is a perfectly lovely name and one that will serve you well. Your surname, however, confuses me. Is it Cambridge? “Wales?” “Cornwall?”

What? As it turns out, Royalty, much like Madonna and Cher, doesn’t appear to NEED a last name. They just are. One commentator (American so see “really knows nothing” referenced above) mentioned that your surname might actually be “House of Windsor-Mountbatten-Wales.”

All I know is that seems an awful lot to fit on the back of a little league uniform.

About the Author

Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless. More Stories by Kymberly Foster Seabolt

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