Ah, the life of a royal baby. Luxurious, naps, and the occasional flashback of trauma.
Just when I was getting into the swing of things, bossing around the king and sleeping for 16 hours a day, they decided I needed to socialize.
Enter: The Baby Ball.
Now, if you're imagining elegance, music, and dainty tea cups—you're mistaken. Baby Balls are a battlefield masquerading as a playdate. A horde of plump aristocratic babies stuffed into a palace ballroom with hyper-ambitious parents and an excess of fluffy bonnets.
I was doubtful at first. But then. I stumbled upon something crazy.We could chat.
Not unlike, "coherent adult speech" talk. But then there was something in the jabbering. The gurgles. The tilts of the head. We knew what we were saying.
Well. Sort of.Chats resembled this:"Bababa?""Guguuuh!""Hehehehehe!"".what was this conversation about anyway?""Blrblbl."
We certainly discussed something, okay? I just... couldn't recall it five seconds later. It's like there was some sort of baby brain rule—like our baby-language self-destructed before we could hold onto anything significant. Perhaps that's why adults can't recall their baby years. We weren't stupid—we were under magical NDA contracts.
Anyway, the crowd was mixed.
There were:
Cry-babies who cried if someone looked at them strangely.
Toddlers who had only recently learned about their throwing arms and wanted the whole world to know it.
And then there was me: the reclusive, slightly unhinged baby princess with suspiciously sophisticated side-eyes.
I put up with this craziness for three balls. That was my limit.
After that, I decided I was retiring from society.
But of course, the maids kept trying to pull me back like it was part of some baby elite training program.
So I took matters into my own hands.
Step 1: Diaper Bomb.
There's no faster way to clear a room than with a well-timed diaper blowout. Extra points if I locked eyes with a lady of dignity at the exact moment it occurred. Psychological warfare.
Step 2: Weaponized Vomit (Again).
If any noblewoman ventured to gossip about my "scandalous mother," I'd reward her with a fountain of pre-chewed banana. I once snubbed a duchess's silk dress. She hasn't looked at me ever since. Mission accomplished.
Step 3: Strategic Biting.
I'm not proud of this one. Alright, lie—yeah, I'm incredibly proud.
If another baby attempted to be friendly while at the same time pummeling blocks into my face, I'd just gradually nibble on their hand. Dominance achieved.
Later, I grew up to be that baby. The one maids whispered about. The one nobles shunned. The one with a reputation.
And really? I was okay with that.
Let them gossip. Let them gawk. Let them send their infants to mingle while I slept in bliss. I'd much rather prepare in secret for my long-term strategy: remaking Princess Charlotte before I reach fifteen and end up dungeon-ed.
But for now?
Keep your balls.
I'll take naps and sippy cups to royal baby politics any time.