It was Thursday evening—almost the weekend, but not quite.

Dinner was winding down. The table was a scene of half-eaten pasta, a lone broccoli floret being negotiated like it was a hostage, and three-year-old Renee passionately refusing to eat anything “green unless it’s green like Elsa’s dress.”

Renee (scowling at her plate):
“These peas are from Anna’s kitchen. Not Elsa’s.”

My husband glanced at me.

Him:
“I mean… that tracks?”

Me (sighing):
“We’ve entered the Frozen multiverse.”

Just as I was preparing my “just try one bite” speech, I remembered something.

Me:
“Oh! Ms. Deidre messaged. Tomorrow’s Show & Tell is a performance day—they’re doing songs this time, and we have to record it at home tonight.”

My husband blinked.
“Wait—tonight tonight?”

Before I could answer, Renee dropped her fork with a clatter.

Renee:
“I WILL SING LET IT GO!”

Of course she would.

Me:
“Do you want to think about it or maybe try something easier like—”

Renee (wide-eyed):
“MOMMY. LET IT GO. It’s my show. And my tell.”

Stage Prep: Operation Elsa

We cleared the dining table and moved into performance prep mode. I became wardrobe assistant. My husband was lighting tech (he turned the floor lamp). Renee was… the artist.

Me:
“Okay, where’s your Elsa dress?”

Renee:
“In the special bag! The Halloween one!”

We pulled out the plastic bin with glitter stickers and pirate hats hanging off the side, dug through last year’s chaos, and emerged victorious—Elsa dress in hand. Slightly wrinkled, but still shimmering with leftover Halloween candy energy.

Renee held it up like Rafiki presenting Simba.

Renee:
“Elsa wears it like this when she’s walking up the mountain.”

Of course she does.

We braided her hair, clipped in the sparkly snowflake barrette that never stays in place, and added a blanket for her cape—because this Elsa needed something “flowy.”

Me:
“You look amazing! Ready to sing?”

Renee (closing her eyes):
“Wait. I need to feel the snow first.”

She stood there, absolutely still, absorbing the Frozen spirit. Then… she opened her eyes, stepped onto her performance platform (a.k.a. the rug), and nodded.

Take One

I hit record.

She belted out Let It Go with all the confidence of a Broadway star and none of the breath control. Words were half correct, notes were all over the place, and yet somehow, it was perfect. She twirled at just the right moments, shouted the chorus, and flung her cape blanket behind her like it had personal beef with gravity.

At the final “The cold never bothered me anyway,” she gave the camera a solemn nod.

We clapped. We whooped. I stopped the video.

Me:
“That was AMAZING! I’m going to send this to Ms. Deidre.”

She studied the playback. Then turned to me, serious-faced.

Renee:
“Mommy? Can we do it again?”

Me:
“Sure! What do you want to change? The spin? The end note?”

Renee (whispering like it’s classified):
“I forgot something important.”

Take Two

Same drama. Same power notes. This time, at the end—after the final bow—she looked directly into the camera and chirped:

“Please like and subscribe!”

Me:
“Wait—WHAT?”

Renee (nodding):
“That’s what they always say after they sing.”

Husband:
“LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE? Are we raising a preschool influencer?!”

Renee (dead serious):
“That’s how people know it was good.”

Reflection: When the Internet Teaches Our Kids Who to Be Before We Do

Later that night, after the costume was folded away and the glitter had settled (figuratively, never literally), I rewatched the videos.

One was pure joy. The other… was a little echo of the world she’s quietly absorbing.

She’s three. She doesn’t really know what “subscribe” means.
But she knows that it belongs at the end of a good performance.

No one taught her that. Not us. Not school.
But the screen did.

She’s not just copying. She’s learning a new language—a subtle message that to be seen, to be validated, you have to perform… and then ask for approval.

We live in a world where children see more influencers than neighbors.
Where a toddler who can’t read can navigate video apps better than some grandparents.

And the digital language? They’re absorbing it without translation.

So I wonder…

• Is she still playing?
• Or has she started performing?
• Will she draw pictures just to draw… or will she start asking me to post them?
• Will her joy always come from inside? Or will it slowly shift outward, measured in hearts and emojis?
• What does it mean when “like and subscribe” becomes as reflexive as “thank you”?

We wanted to capture a sweet memory for her teacher.
But in the process, I caught a glimpse of something bigger:

A generation growing up with a camera always pointed at them.
A stage always waiting.
An audience always assumed.

So I’ll Leave You With This:

Is it harmless fun?
A funny little moment to laugh about?

Or is it a sign—one of many—that childhood is changing in ways we can’t always see until much later?

Are we okay with our kids learning to self-brand before they can spell their last names?

What do you think?

Would love to hear your thoughts. No pressure.
No likes or subscribes necessary.

Just… be real.