I just came home from a fabulous birthday party for my pal Lexi. She’s seven. Normally I really don’t enjoy children’s birthday parties. They are loud and children on sugar scare me. My own children scare me when they have had too much sugar. I scare me when I have had too much sugar. However, Lexi’s birthday was a girls only party at a princess tea house. Seriously. Six little girls who got to play dress up, be princesses and have tea and cake. The moms didn’t get to wear the tiaras though, which I thought kind of sucked. I love my tiara. It’s from the 99 cent store and pink and sparkly and makes me an awesome super hero. Maybe I should start wearing it more…
Anyway, the party was charming and lovely and the tea room was so resplendently over the top; filled with dolls and princesses and a heart shaped tea table. The girls were happy with their clip on earrings and silly little sparkly pumps. The moms had fun as well, as there was sangria.
As I watched the little girls pulling the feathers off of their boas, some stuff occurred to me. First of all, I love having boys, don’t get me wrong. I have mastered the art of becoming an awesome Decepticon and can fence with Nerf swords better than most men. I love Legos and can kick some serious butt while shooting bad guys with my trusty semi-automatic Nerf gun. I love that I have momma’s boys that are sweet and sensitive, imaginative and ladies men yet still transform into rough-housing, dirty faced miscreants. I wouldn’t trade them in for anything, even when I am exhausted, even when I step on Bakugan toys in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and even when they don’t listen as I tell them for the seventieth time to do their homework.
With that said, it was nice to be surrounded by giggling girls, dressed up in sparkly ball gowns whispering secrets to one another. It made me think of when I was little. I wanted to be a princess. I was a ballerina. I loved the tutus and ballet slippers until my boobs started looking seriously ridiculous in a leotard. That was when I switched to acting. Seriously, not enough sports bras in the universe to hold those things properly in a leotard. When I was little, I loved playing dress up and putting on shows in the backyard and I loved trying on my mom’s shoes and jewelry. Actually, I still do that. I loved being a girly girl.
So when I was standing in the princess section of the toy aisle at Target, shopping for Lexi’s birthday, I thought, maybe while buying the princess play earrings and her very own pink and sparkly tiara, I should buy her a play doctor’s set or a play lawyer’s set. Actually, I didn’t really see a play lawyer’s set. What would be in one of those anyway? A brief case and a secretary? Perhaps Barbie’s Dream Courtroom? Pink judge’s chair with matching gavel? Ken would be the defense attorney and Skipper would be the court reporter. Smurfs for the jury box? Hmmm…
Anyway, I thought about the feminist message we were sending by buying these silly toys. Allowing girls to dress up as princesses and letting them think they will marry Prince Charming is kind of a dangerous thing. Again, we rarely end up with Prince Charming because he is only two dimensional. Even the 3D version of Prince Charming wouldn’t remember to put the toilet seat down. I thought I would marry Prince Charming and we all know how that turned out.
I try to teach feminist or rather humanist ideals which probably makes me a total hypocrite because I still love playing dress up. Now, it’s just called "going out on dates". Unfortunately, I rarely end up with Ken, which I guess is good considering he isn’t anatomically correct.
It’s the same thing with my boys. ( no, they are anatomically correct.) I don’t allow any toy guns that are not Nerf. Even those, I am not a fan of. Well, sort of. I do like shooting them. Gets out some aggression. But the whole gun thing scares me, especially since I just spent two hours of professional development learning about what to do if our school gets locked down because of a gunman. (gun person?) Makes me not want to fail any of my students. Especially the angry ones.
This year for Chrismakkah, Max wanted an Easy Bake Oven and I was all over that. Although try finding a plain old fashion incandescent light bulb to put in it was not easy. You can’t use soft white or long-last bulbs, they don’t work; and the new energy saver ones give off no heat to cook the little tiny cakes. Big dilemma here. Huge. We haven’t baked anything in it as of yet because I can’t find a damn light bulb for him to cook with. Wow, that is a sentence I really never thought I would hear myself say. I guess I could let him use the genuine oven, but that kind of defeats the whole purpose.
Anyway, back to the weird feminist stuff that is floating through my head right now. The woman's study classes I took in college told me I could and should be an independent woman. I loved those classes because they made me feel like I could be anything I wanted to be. I could be a doctor if I wanted. Although I really don’t like blood or math, so that was out. I guess my point is the whole princess-doctor issue is sort of like the whole Madonna-whore issue, isn’t it? Men want woman who are a little bit of both. Just as we women want to be treated like a princess but still make as much money as the male doctors. If we are going to be independent, then why can’t we have both? I want the girls that I teach to know that they can and will be anything they aim for. I want them to know they can be independent and still date cute boys. I want them to know, as well as myself, that there is room for both. I want women who are aggressive to be known simply as aggressive and not bitches. Its not fair. If a man voices a strong opinion, then he is a go-getter. If I voice one, I am an overly emotional bitch. When in reality I am only one once a month.
Sometimes I think no matter how far we have come we still are back in the 1950’s where women vacuumed in high heels and men thought women should be vacuuming in high heels. Although vacuuming in high heels is not as easy as it looks. I once tried it, tripped over the cord and smacked my face right into the coffee table. I had a swollen lip for a week. It looked like I had collagen injected into only one side of my lips. Not really a good look for me.
I want to be treated with respect but I can’t help being validated when I guy tells me I’m pretty. Just like a seven year old princess. Crap, forty-three years old and I still can’t figure this dichotomy out. Is it alright to be both? Because I am. There is a happy medium somewhere, I just know it. For seven year olds and for forty-three year olds. Perhaps if there were a Barbie Dream Courtroom the point would be made better. Great suits, little pink heels, precedent setting verdicts. I should call Mattel.
Probably a little soap boxy for my blog, but hey, read me, read all of me.
And by the way, I will still always wear high heels. Just not for vacuuming.
No comments:
Post a Comment