My daughter is into all things princess. Glitter! Fairies! Princes! Kingdoms! Castles! Knights! Ball Gowns! Weddings! True Love! Kissing! Scrappy maids winning the guy! Happily Ever After!
On one hand, it’s cute to watch her get all girly and squeaky and twirly like I did at her age, but back then, all we had were a couple of naked Barbies with mismatched shoes and our naïve imaginations. Now they have movies, theme parks, breakfast cereals, underwear, and toy cell phones to move the formula along.
It’s very difficult to take sometimes, not only because of the false sense of self they are instilling in these young girls — get the guy and your life is happy, because certainly it’s incomplete without a partner — not to mention the implied pressure to be pretty and kind. (At least that was my template, now they’ve added smart and brave to compensate for being too submissive all those years.)
But it also gets under my skin as a divorced mom. It’s akin to believing in Santa Claus. Reality tends to shatter the fantasy. I’m not saying that learning the truth about Santa is similar in its devastation to divorce. Nor am I saying I’m going to crush her dreams and fantasies about boyfriends and potential partners or not be there for her when some douchebag breaks her heart. I’m just sayin’. Enchanted is still one of my favorite movies.
My vacuum cleaner bag is full of glitter and I can’t believe I used “akin” and “douchebag” in the same post.
In honor of NaBloPoMo.