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.