A Tale of Two Ariels
by Christina Kapp

These days, princesses are rampant. You see them everywhere: in the mall, at the preschools, at McDonald’s. It almost makes you wonder what on earth has happened to our democratic society. Then again, the princesses parading around today are generally preschool age; all they know is that princesses wear deliciously frilly ball gowns while they snack on Goldfish and juice. That’s about enough information for them.

I have two girls. They are not princesses, but they would like to be. I have told them that you really can’t be an aspiring princess these days – William and Harry are out there of course, but alas, the timing is somewhat off. Not meant to be, I shrug, as they traipse off to their rooms, where they can nestle in with their trunks full of ball gowns, princess posters and pillowcases, and plastic “jewel” encrusted tiaras. Yes, the princess mystique has permeated our lives to a degree that is almost embarrassing to describe in detail. I will note for the ages, however, that the first printed words my 3-year-old could recognize on sight were, “Disney Princess.”

Sad, but true.

Feminists probably frown and shake their heads at my permissiveness. Perhaps I am dooming my daughters’ love lives to disappointment and misconception. Then again, perhaps not. This is not a debate I engage in. I just introduce “Cars” and “Curious George” right along with “Cinderella” and “The Little Mermaid” and hope it all evens out in the wash.

But this is a story about Ariel, the mermaid princess who metamorphosizes into a human to pursue her true love and become a human princess. The object of her desire is Eric, a generic rich boy sort of prince who lives in a castley place near the ocean. He likes to ride around on his ships. He has a large sheepdog. Ariel thinks he’s handsome. Eric likes Ariel’s voice, which, of course, she has traded for legs. This is what we know. Marriages have been built on less.

In any case, my girls are hypnotized by this. Ariel is their hero. All life is about the wonder of Ariel. Fortunately for me, Disney licenses Ariel dolls. Big surprise, I know, but in case you’ve been living under a rock (or have boys and/or haven’t been in a toy store in a couple of years) let me clarify that yes, Ariel dolls can be purchased in all sizes and shapes and many can transform from mermaid to human at the will of the child by simply yanking the tail off to unbind two legs.

It is my sincere belief that we own at least one of every variety manufactured.

My 3-year-old daughter’s favorite Ariel is a small variety (it fits neatly in her fist with both head and tail/feet sticking out either end) and it was not technically hers but her older sister’s. Her adoration for this particular Ariel seemed to be roughly on par with her desire for, say, giant chocolate Santas or parental love, so we decided to dodge the obvious sibling battles by purchasing a second identical doll. This sounds like an easy fix, but alas, nothing is ever quite that simple. First, we discovered that fist-sized Ariels with rubber dress ups and tail are a bit of a hot item – need a small Sleeping Beauty, Snow White or Jasmine? No problem. Ariel? Toy store clerks laugh at you. You’ve got to hit it just right to get your hands on an Ariel.

Don’t get me started on the whole Disney demand marketing behind this. There is no point and it makes me somewhat rabid, so let’s just say that we kept our eyes peeled, we kept our 5-year-old (the real owner of the doll) at bay with promises that we were handling the situation, and we let our 3-year-old live in blissful happiness with her fistful of Ariel.

Then, just as I was giving up hope, I found it. She was hiding in the toy section of the Safeway supermarket near my mom’s house. Triumphantly, I presented the doll to my 5-year-old.

“The wait is over, honey. I have a brand new Ariel, just for you. Thank you so much for being patient and sharing with your sister.”

Phew.

Bliss, however, is not intended to last forever. Two days later, my 3-year-old did the unthinkable: she popped Ariel’s little head off.

“Daddy!!! Fix it!!!” she wailed.

This is easier said than done. My husband valiantly struggled with the Ariel head, employing every tool in his arsenal – screwdrivers, wrenches, superglue and the like – but that red-haired noggin simply refused to snap back on to the large (relatively) vertebrae-knob at the top of her body. Mayhem ensued. Our 3-year-old appropriated our 5-year-old’s new Ariel, tucking it into her fist and running off at an alarming speed, her sister hot on her trail, creating what sounded an awful lot like a sonic boom in the girls’ bedrooms. The indefinite appropriation of New Ariel was not going to be tolerated. Our 5-year-old was getting the short shrift and she knew it. She fought with everything she had, hiding the Ariel in her bedroom, insisting that her door remain closed at all times and taking an aggressively defensive stance against the ever-present threat of kidnapping.

We, the parents, did the best we could to diffuse the situation, backing up our older daughter, soothing our younger, and slathering both of them with praise in the odd moments of “good sharing!”

And, sadly, we began the Ariel search anew.

Fortunately, there is a benevolent God in the universe, and we lucked into another Ariel doll at a Toys R’ Us pretty quickly. We sent up a sincere prayer of thanks, presented it to our 3-year-old, gave back New Ariel (Ariel #2) to our 5-year-old and hoped that they’d both get sick of Ariel and end this madness very, very soon. I bought them “Bambi” and “Mary Poppins” videos and pushed them, hard. I played fairy games and did Hello Kitty puzzles with them. I let them watch “Noggin” way, way too much. Still, the little Ariels remained a ubiquitous household presence. There was, however, relative peace for at least a few days. This was a relief.

Then shrieking. Again.

“Emily has my Ariel!”  I found my 3-year-old writhing on the floor, an Ariel on the floor beside her. Emily, my older child, stood by, Ariel in hand.

Honestly, I was confused, as each child seemed to possess an Ariel and, to my thinking, this should solve the problem.

“But look, here she is,” I said, handing the free Ariel back to my tantruming child. “Right here on the floor.”

“No!” She howled, taking the Ariel from me. “That’s not my Ariel. That’s Happy Ariel. I want Sad Ariel.” Then Ariel, apparently Happy Ariel, was sent sailing across the room.  The tantrum gathered strength.

I retrieved Happy Ariel and looked the little doll straight in the face, as if daring her to tell me something I didn’t know. The doll’s plastic face looked benign enough and yes, truth be told, happy. Still, this did not solve the immediate problem.

“Aren’t the dolls the same?” I asked.

“Noooo,” Nora wailed. “Emily has Sad Ariel. Sad Ariel is mine!”

I coaxed Emily into showing me her Ariel, Sad Ariel. The very same manufactured face grinned back at me.

“They’re the same,” I proclaimed, naively.

“Nooo! I want Sad Ariel,” Nora howled.

I look to Emily, my older, calmer and presumably more rational child for clarification. “How can you tell which is which?” I asked.

“Sad Ariel has longer eyelashes,” she said, reaching for the doll. I was not ready to relinquish either doll just yet, however. I needed to understand.

Upon closer inspection, I did indeed see that one of the two dolls had slightly thicker eyelashes, giving her a vaguely faraway look. The difference was extremely slight and, obviously, just a mechanical variation, but it was enough for my daughters to battle over. At this point, I was struck by the realization that I was way, way over my head. I simply could not fix this. I could not make these dolls the same, nor could rewind the clock to the days before we had blithely gifted the first little Ariel to Emily. The best option I could come up with was to simply relinquish both Ariels and let them have at it.

I went back to Nora, still tantruming on the floor. “Sorry kiddo, I have no idea which is which and I think you’re just going to have to learn to share both Happy and Sad Ariel.”

Nora continued to scream and Emily tried to make a run for it with Sad Ariel. The mommy reflex kicked in again, automatically, like slamming on the brakes to avoid a car accident. I reached out and grabbed Emily, holding her and Sad Ariel in place. “Well, wait a second, why don’t you play with this one today and then tomorrow you can switch?”

“No!” both children screamed.

Then, I don’t know why, but came very close to laughing at my own kids. “Well then, I guess you’d better figure something out. But, remember the rules. I don’t want to hear any hitting or door slamming up here.”

I think I came downstairs and sat on the couch, trying to digest what had just occurred. Was it only in my household that things got so out of hand? Was there another family in the universe that had kids who would fight over irregularly applied ink? As I wondered about this, the tantruming stopped. It became strangely quiet. Somehow or other, enough minutes had passed and I heard chatter from above. They had moved on, all by themselves. I don’t know what they transpired, exactly, but the storm passed. This was when I understood that real lesson to be learned was not for them, but for me. There is only so much intervention that can be done in the world. When it all comes down to it, kids will fight. If allowed to, perhaps they will also figure out how to make up and move on.

This doesn’t always work, of course, and both Happy and Sad Ariel continue to be the source of sibling torment. Nevertheless, I think I’m getting better at letting my kids learn to settle their disputes in their own way, even if it means enduring a few more fights and a few extra time outs.

And, in case you were wondering, Headless Ariel has not been cast aside simply because she has lost her body. No, she has found favor with my husband and I, who hide her head in each other’s coat pockets, shoes, sock drawers and work bags, just to freak each other out. A little Ariel is good for us all.

Christina Kapp's short fiction and poetry have been published in The Adirondack Review, flashquake and Beginnings. A suburbanite mom, she lives in New Jersey with her husband and two preschool-age daughters. In rare moments of quiet, she is hard at work on her first novel.

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