Cinderella Ate My Daughter

Well, Peggy Orenstein has upped and written another book focusing on how traumatic it is to be a girl. I first read her book Schoolgirls about 10 years ago and cried at the truth on every page: she followed preteen girls struggling with adolescence and coming to grips with the fact that while their parents had always told them they could be whatever they wanted to be, those budding little breasts were foiling all their plans.

What does happen to girls when they hit puberty? Did you go crazy? I remember going boy crazy, but looking back I think it was just a cover, I was just filling a need. I remember feeling invincible, daddy's little angel, I could run up and down the street all day and nobody cared what I was up to. Then BAM! Boobs. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing.

Sure, I wrote a short story about seeing a penis that my parents found hidden in my closet. But it was fictional. Jeez. Give me a break mom.

I do remember the summer I turned 11. Yvette who lived down the street (her much older sister's name was Yvonne and they were beautiful half Chinese, half Russian) well she and I would walk around the neighborhood. But first you bet your asses we padded our bras. I remember my system of rolling up socks to make perfectly shaped breasts. We wrote love letters to Axl Rose and put school pictures of her sister and her friends in the envelopes. We daydreamed for hours about going on a tour bus with Poison. Images of big hair makeout sessions filled our lazy summer days.

But at least we were 11.

Peggy Orenstein's new book Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture highlights the influence that seemingly harmless "princesses" have on the mentality of our young daughters. The target age of 3 hurtles little girls into a world of makeup and dress-up and looking beautiful for the ball, or even worse, the prince.

Shit.

So what the fuck am I going to do now? My daughter has been playing with these toys for a year. And trust me: I was wary. I have been very protective about not letting any Barbies in (though Aunties love to buy them!!) and I did acquiesce when Dr. Barbie came home after a trip to Grandma's. But those little Disney princesses, they snuck in under the radar. Or almost. Tinkerbell. That's the one that ruffled my feathers first. Fucking Tinkerbell. With her big, "do me" doe eyes and her 34, 25, 38 figure. Even the way Disney depicts her walking is sexualized. I hid that goddamn movie.

But the other "princesses'? They've all been so innocent and a part of my upbringing. Cinderella, God how I loved that movie, well she works her ass off, she's kind to animals, she falls in "love" not for money (remember how she tells the prince as she's running away, "But I must go say hello to the prince"?). And really the prince is not her savior, it's the truth of her existence, the animals that set her free from the tower. The prince? Yeah, fucking icing on the cake. I can't hate Cinderella. I can't.


Moms we are in a tough spot. I mean, everything I do already I think is wrong or going to send her to the shrink, but when a writer I respect calls me out for placing my daughter on a path that may lead her to obsession over looks, insecurity, and an inability to enjoy being sexual? SHIT. What am I doing? What am I going to do?

Lie to our daughters for a little bit longer and tell them that looks and beauty don't matter? Or change the world. One birthday present at a time.

 Oh, Play Doh, please save us.

Holly Hobbyless

So, I got dumped. By a 26 year old no less. And do you know why? The man asked me about my hobbies.  Full-blown panic attack. I spazzed. Told him we needed to break up. I mean, are you serious, what are my hobbies? What are my fucking hobbies?

If you're a mom then you know the answer to this. But let me explain to the others the hobbies of a single mother with two children under the age of four, who's going to school: I scrub crayons off the wall, I find the missing Polly Pocket dress in between cushions so my daughter stops crying, I pull my son off the dining room table (again), I take the phone call from their father saying he needs me to drop them off late and pick them up early, or maybe it's another guilt phone call about coming back home so the children have a "family", or maybe I'm cleaning up the food the kids threw on the floor and ground into the carpet, or maybe I'm just shaking my head because someone is screaming "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy". Jesus Christ, stop calling me that, I have a name, I have a name. It's, it's...

Stop. What the hell is my name and who am I now? Mom's, who are we now; when's the last time your heard your name?

No, I don't fucking scrapbook. I don't do photography, I don't knit, crochet, or macrame. My tennis racket is sitting in the car, waiting for me, but the babysitter is going to charge me $15 an hour. How about a good book? I'll read the first three sentences ten times before I fall asleep: David Beckham and I have some unfinished business to attend to.

Does hanging out with my friends count? Drinking wine? Dreaming up what I'd do if I won the lottery? (Hire a fucking nanny first thing!)

So his question, what are my hobbies, smacks me in the face. Raymond Carver said it best "What we talk about when we talk about love." So here we all are. What we talk about when we talk about hobbies. He might have asked me about my hobbies, but what he really wants to know is who I am, and what do I do, what is my life full of.

And I don't have an answer. Or do I? He ran away as fast as he could, but I started walking towards something that I almost didn't recognize. That thing, somewhere. I remember. That thing that I stopped doing so long ago. Why? It's been so long. When did I bury it? Where did you put yours?

I head to the basement. We all keep things in the basement. Holding onto the railing, I smell a late September morning, damp, full of wet dirt and green sky, so perfect it makes your heart hurt, and it's just laying there. Not even in a corner, on the floor in the middle of room.

I pick it up, dust covering the lid, and write my name on it.

Preschool Conferences

Preschool conferences. Are you fucking kidding me?

Let's not fool ourselves people. Our children are not in preschool  to gain essential early reading skills or to develop socially and emotionally to become productive members of society; they are in preschool to get the fuck out of our house all day long and to whine to someone else about snacky-snacks.

Or wait, maybe I am missing something vital by not attending this life-altering meeting. Perhaps my daughter's teacher could explain to me the long-term trajectory of her educational career, or discuss my daughter's deep interest in the word poop. She works it into at least every sentence. I'm sure there some issues to discuss. Or maybe she could bring up the fact that I bring my daughter late every single day, or that I've never turned in a scholastic reader.

I can only imagine the ways this teacher would like to grill me on my parenting.

No, I do not want to fucking talk to you when I drop my kid off. No, I do not want talk to other mothers. I mean, they are wearing makeup.What the fuck? I am so not talking to you. I still have oatmeal in my hair and I just had to wrestle my daughter into that goddamn outfit. Cause nothing says good morning like having your 3 year old run around the house screaming that she hates you and she hates sweatshirts and she will not, I repeat will absolute not wear anything with a hood. So glad I got out of bed for this shit. 


And no, I don't want to sign up for parent's carnival night. Just in case you were fucking wondering.

50% of You are Lying

Here's one thing I know about you mom: At some point you thought to yourself "I fucking hate those kids" or kid, if you were wise enough to only breed once. You didn't tell your best friend about it for awhile, maybe like 3 years, but then one day you just blurted it out "I hate being a mom".

And what did your best friend say?

Or maybe it wasn't your best friend. Maybe it was your cousin's wife who happens to have kids about the same age as yours. This is the person you call when you just screamed at your daughter for looking at you that way, or your son for holding onto the leg of your pants for goddamn hours on end. What does your almost relative say?

"I know. My kids are driving me fucking insane."

There, your dirty little secret is out. And what I propose is that about 50% of us moms feel that way. That other 50% is fucking delusional. Or older, or into God or at least yoga (I bet they want me to capitalize that). Those older one's were begging for a child, trying soooo hard, spending good money, and praying for the right number of chromosomes. Then here comes the miracle baby. You love things when you work really hard for them.

Wait, am I implying that since I can get pregnant just by looking at Brad Pitt in Fight Club, that I somehow love my children less? Hmmm. Not less, just differently, like with a healthy dose of reality and irritation. Not to mention skepticism. They can be up to anything at any given moment. I don't fucking trust them. Not to go all Hobbes and Locke, but seriously if man were essentially good than he wouldn't start out by biting down on his mother's nipples so hard that he associates blood with lunch.

The God ones and just mellow into the whole world moms? Ugh. Please. Shut the fuck up. Yeah, yeah, so you spent all day playing charades and trying on each others shoes. So happy everyone is so well adjusted at your house (and trust me, us other mom's we are so onto you: We see you fucking grind your teeth and smile a little too tight. It's actually called passive aggressive. And meds. Ha!) Go volunteer and let everyone think you're wonderful so I don't have to. Thanks.

So welcome to blog. My unabridged, unedited, and unbelievably unsympathetic look at motherhood.