Personal Narrative-Perfect All-American Apple Pie Family

The funny thing about my parents is that they always try to paint our family as happy and peachy perfect. Well, they're wrong. We are nowhere near the picture-perfect family that they portray us to be, but if they want to continue playing house than they can go right ahead living like animated plastic dolls. They can continue their paper house facade as long as they like. Who am I to stop them since they probably wouldn't even listen to me and their other two daughters anyway?

I sometimes wish the white walls in my very own home could talk, so outsiders like yourself could really know that we're not your typical All-American apple pie family. I don't even like apple pie because apples are rotten to the core like the Evil Queen from Snow White, which is actually a good metaphor for some people in my family.

My father is probably the bad

apple in my family, but the old man does mean well. He's not the perfect father material that you would see in a hallmark catalog, although the way he charismatically smiles in family portraits, you would think of him as the ideal dad.

However, somebody once said: “Looks can be deceiving and you only see what you want to see”. The memo goes for everything, even for fairy tales

If you asked my father about how he would perceive himself in a fairy tale, his narcissistic reply would be something like this: “I definitely know that I would be the dashing prince charming, and probably the fairest of them all.” Do you know what I see behind your charade mask, dad? A big bad wolf in white knight’s clothing, the black sheep with secrets in his wool.

If you asked my mother about how she would perceive herself in a fairy tale, she would reply by saying this kind of nonsense: “I would probably be a strong heroine, who would never need a prince to save her.” Do you know what I see you as, mom? A damsel in distress that always thinks she’s the only victim in the entire kingdom, who needs a prince that saves her financially.”

Oh, you want to ask how I would perceive myself in a fairy tale? I would probably say: “Being as carefree and naive as Eloise in the storybooks I used to read.” I already know that wasn’t the response you were looking for, but I would really love a Fairy Godmother to wave her magic wand and turn me into a doe-eyed little girl, like my six-year-old sister Maggie.

My little sister Maggie, lives in her own little realm of an untouchable Neverland. She believes it’s easy to detect the villain or the pretty princess in life because of every fable that I’ve read to her for a bedtime story. However, I believe that the villains are sometimes misunderstood and that the hero’s sometimes sugar coat their own happily ever after. I considered telling Maggie about my outlook for fairy tales, but I decided to keep it to myself until she’s older to understand.

Speaking of old, I haven’t mentioned my older sister Sarah yet, which is weird for me because I usually write about her as first entries in my little pink notebook.

For some reason, I’m having trouble putting my sister’s character into words for you, so bear with me.

Maybe I should start off writing about her short hair that is dyed a glossy pink and it’s all fuzzy like cotton candy. You’re probably thinking this right now: “I bet her older sister dyed her hair pink on purpose, so that she can add color to their black and white family portrait.” It sure did add a lustrous color, a flaming red of defiance that burned my sister’s image right out of our picture-perfect family. She was no longer our parent’s Barbie girl that was made of plastic. She was no longer a pawn in their game. And she was no longer allowed to reveal her new look in the O’Hara Christmas cards… ever.

I’m not sure why my parent’s have this really crazy obsession of making our family pose like mannequins in the the O’Hara photo albums? But I have no say in the matter because I’m still their darling paper doll that is controlled by their imaginary

strings.