We’ve entered a phase I never thought possible (especially for a girl whose life revolved around trains): the princess period. If you have a daughter, you may be familiar with it. It involves (but is not limited to) any of the following: costumes that fall apart after one wearing, chirping birds, and fantasy balls. The whole deal. The real deal.
I’m not particularly keen on Princesses. The plot in (most) of these movies and books revolves around marriage, finding a prince, and pouting over a lack of beautiful dresses. Not things I necessarily want Peanut to aspire to, particularly throughout her early years. More often than not I find myself chasing her with a toy stethoscope, insisting she can be a “princess doctor” (she’s bought it, by the way).
That being said, I do understand the appeal of something beautiful. And I’m mostly chalking this up to being something many girls go through. I’m accepting it, and tempering it all with as much positive imagery as possible.
So nearly every day, Peanut dons a scratchy blue dress and insists on being referred to as “Cinderella” (blue’s still her favorite color). And nearly every day, we shed said dress before leaving the house.
Then last week, we were walking to pre-school. Peanut skipped ahead of me, stopping only occasionally to ask for a drink. “Need my super powers,” she said, intently, sipping from her water bottle.
I can deal with Princesses, I thought.
As long as they’re wearing metaphorical capes.