It’s a Boy
24 October 2005
For those bloggers who do not know, Australia’s very own, Mary Donaldson, future Queen of Denmark, has had a baby boy. That’s right, the baby prince is half Danish and half Australian.
Mary met Crown Prince Frederik and some of his mates out boozing one night at a pub in Sydney during the 2000 summer Olympics. Suddenly they had a thing going and voila, fast-forward five years: Mary and Fred are married, and now Mary is a royal mum.
And just to clarify, that would be royal as in one who wears a real tiara when out and about on special occasions, versus a royal wannabe, AKA a just-crowned Miss America in her debutante taffeta frock, matching-colored pumps, and fake tiara.
Yes, Mary is god’s gift to all we regular girls aspiring to genuine princesshood, which should not be confused with homecoming queen aspirations (since as mentioned above, pageantry decreed titles are faux and thus gauche).
So it’s kinda like this: if Mary, formerly a real estate agent in one of Sydney’s inner-city burbs can snag a prince, I can too!
I’ve been nudging Nikov to do some research into his family genealogy. He’s a Croatian war refugee, and lord knows those Eastern European countries have been chopped and divided so many times, due to all those wars, it’s highly possible one of his forebears might have been someone, as in a Habsburg prince.
Though, even if he did discover aristocratic forebears, it wouldn’t elevate me any further than my current standing in eyes of gorgeous boyfriend, because bless his euro heart, Nikov already makes me feel like a princess every time he calls me, “Tildy my beauty my love.”
You know the Danish royal family traces its roots back to Gorm the Old, a Viking king who died in 958. Those helmet-headed Scandinavians have a reputation for being slashes and burners, sword-yielding baddies of the most uncouth genus.
In other words, charm and eloquence was not high on the Nordic interior cultural ministry agenda. Fortunately the Danes have since been to etiquette school and Fred is an example of how the Norse barbarians have morphed over time.
Let’s face it, Fred must be down right debonair if he managed to woo Mary away from her home town, beautiful sunny Sydney, convincing her to shack up with him in Fredensborg Castle, location: frigging freezing Copenhagen.
Well, come to think of it, if Nikov mentioned a castle, couture dresses, and genuine diamante headgear, I’d say, “Bye, bye Boulder, Colorado.”
Beyond my waxing on about princesses and Norseman, five days post-birth, Baby Prince of Denmark still doesn’t have a name! But word has it it’s likely to be Christian, since the Danish royal custom decrees all kings are either named Christian or Frederik.
All I can say is thank god for tradition, because I’d feel really bad for the baby if Fred and Mary decided to name him after his great, great (ad infinitum) grandfather, Old Gorm!
