The other night the Ninja Princessa had a dream that I died. Sure, some smarty pants psychologist could make a case for the Princessa working out her anger at her evil step-mother by killing her off in a dream but I choose to see it as proof positive that I am well and truly loved. I offer my evidence thusly:
Point 1 - Apparently my funeral was a huge success. Fabulous people (including none other than Lorelai and Rory Gilmore) came to say how sorry they were and to offer the Princessa their deepest sympathies. (Now you may not be the Gilmore Girls fanatic that we are so you may not realize what a testament that is to my beloved state - but take my word for it. When the hippest, most articulate and beautiful mother-daughter duo attends your funeral, it's a good sign.)
Point 2 - After my funeral, our whole family moved into the house of my dreams (the Twykham House in Stars Hollow) and the Princessa was sad that I was, you know, dead and couldn't enjoy it so she had my grave moved to the back yard. Yep - they took my dead, mouldering self with them!!
Point 3 - (And this is the kicker.) Not long after the move, I rose from the grave and shuffled back into their lives - ZOMBIFIED!! Me. A zombie! How utterly cool is that?! (You do have to get past the relentless, brain eating, putridness of the zombie archetype and move on to the "wow, my children think about zombies more than they think about anything else in the whole wide world" aspect to see this as a sign of love and devotion, but I am there.) Remembered, resurrected (reanimated, whatever) - I am SO loved. The undead step-mom. There is no higher pinnacle of my children's esteem to which I aspire. Just saying.