outside the (toy) box

If I tried to start someplace coherent, it would be in the beginning, stories of my first struggles (many internal) with these issues, but I can’t remember where they began — debates over names, nursery colors, Christmas gifts..? I do know when they erupted — in September when my precious Thing 1 entered preschool (btw — that is an affectionate Cat in the Hat reference, not a callous disregard for her humanity). 

After three years of constructing a tolerable pop culture world of carefully chosen books, a Sesame Street-only viewing repertoire, Raffi, and lots of good grown up music with unobjectionable lyrics (In the intrerest of full disclosure, I do remember when my dh told me, fair enough, that the playlist with Missy Elliot’s Work It and Kelis’ Milkshake wasn’t really kid friendly.) At any rate, when she started school she had this outrageously creative list of ideas for her Halloween costume (we started early, because I LOVE Halloween) including:

• a parking meter
• a birthday party
• a light switch
• an escalator
• a wall
• an ice cream cone
• an ATM
• a radiator
• and a kite

Yes, seriously — there were others, but those stood out. At any rate, they were inventive. I think she latched onto that idea that she could be “anything” and ran with it.  It took exactly 1 week for her to come home and say, “I know what I want to be for Halloween - a princess!”  Dagger to my heart…dying slow death…external nonreaction. “Cool, what’s a princess?” ”She’s very fancy and she moves her arms like this (windmill).”  I dutifully added it to the list.  I don’t do forbidden fruit, so I never poo-poo princesses.

Sidebar: That policy was initially to avoid making the “P” word extra exciting, and then last winter there was a great article in the Times by anthropololgist Peggy Orenstein that offered another reason not to poo poo — she found that rejecting kid culture can feel, to a kid, like you are rejecting them.  Makes sense, why didn’t I think of that?

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/24/magazine/24princess.t.html?ei=5088&en=8e5a1ac1332a802c&ex=1324616400

Anyway, she decided to be Mother Nature (much better, no?), but that was only the beginning.

She now mentions princesses almost every day and we play princess together periodcally.  How? First of all, we both dress up in the oh-so-important fancy dresses.  Mine is a leftover from a wedding, hers is a “shade of gray” (see the caveats page above) gift I found on ebay. You should see this thing - bright red, ruffled, sequins, rosettes, puffy sleeves - she looks like a flamenco dancer or one of those crocheted craft sale dolls that grandmothers use to cover spare rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom.  I bought her a wonder woman costume at the same time, but it doesn’t get nearly the airtime.  Anyway, we put the dresses on and then run around the house saving people from bad guys (the dog, because she finds it unbearable to cast her father, brother, or I in that role, even for a moment), which amounts to “getting” poochie with decorated paper towel roll batons, putting our arms up triumphantly and saying, “Princess Power!” 

So, this is the middleground, for me anyway.  I find some comfort in realizing that without her having ever seen a Disney princess movie or read the books, that her princess is open to endless narrative possibilities, and I shamelessly work to shape those narratives — sporting fuschia satin all the while.  I don’t think she’s noticing, which I guess is the idea.