We Weren’t Beauty Queens. We Were Mud Queens.

My mom had a dream: three sweet, toehead blonde daughters who would glide through life like miniature beauty queens. Perfect curls, frilly dresses, matching bows — she was convinced we’d look like we’d walked off the cover of Southern Living.

And for about five minutes every morning, we did.

Then we went outside.

By lunchtime, our hair looked like it had been through a hurricane, our dresses were grass-stained beyond recognition, and at least one of us had lost a shoe. Grass stains weren’t “oopsies” in our house — they were accessories. If you didn’t come home with one, you clearly hadn’t lived.

I once wore a tiara and a bike helmet at the same time, convinced I was some kind of royal stunt double. My sister declared barefoot superiority, swearing she could run faster without shoes — a theory she tested regularly in church parking lots. And then there was the Olympic training program we invented using nothing but a staircase, a bath towel, and zero adult supervision. My mom didn’t need Netflix. She had us.

She tried, bless her. She ironed those dresses like her life depended on it. She lined us up in matching outfits for church, all polished and angelic. We made it through the front doors looking holy, but by the time the service ended one bow was gone, one shoe was missing, and somebody was bleeding from the knee.

But here’s the thing: being a “mud queen” was way more fun than being a beauty queen. We didn’t need crowns. We had frog collections, grass stains shaped like continents, and enough chaotic laughter to echo down the block.

And now, years later, those are the moments I treasure most. Not the polished ones, but the messy, hilarious, grass-stained ones.

Because beauty queens fade. But mud queens? We’re forever.