From Tomboy to Princess
I have an aversion to a number of girlie things: Pink. Barbies. Ballet. Princesses. I think I always have.
I could never imagine joining my 10 year old classmates who would spend their Saturdays in pale pink tutus with hair in a tight bun. My 10 year old activities included hide and seek, tag and move-ups or scrub (you know softball where you ‘move up’ positions). Now I wasn’t athletically gifted (those that know me personally will have probably snorted your drink of choice out your nose at this understatement). My height peaked at just over 5 feet so I have no swiftness of feet. But this is how I chose to spend the after school hours and the long summer days. I also did not dream of being a princess or being swept off my feet by my prince charming.
As I matured to adulthood, I developed my own brand of feminism (topic for another post). Suffice it to say, being dependant upon or even waiting for prince charming (or any man) was not part of my manifesto.
When my daughter was born, I do admit to taking a certain delight in being able to dress her. But it was a couple years before I had, myself, purchased anything in pink. And when I did, it was usually a pink top to go with her hand-me-down boy overalls as I thought that was the perfect tomboy look for a 9 month old.
When S was two, people would ask me if I had her signed up for ballet. No, I said dismissively. Not my daughter. I cringed when anyone innocently called S a princess.
At close to 3 1/2, S told me she wanted to be a ballerina. She started doing pirouettes in the kitchen. With two decades of feminism under my belt, I felt ready to pass this on to my daughter. Why do you want to be a ballerina? You can be anything you know.
About a month later I looked into ballet classes. I made sure they were the more-social-than-dance-learning-to-listen type at the community centre. Having made the leap I decided to embrace my inner ballerina. S and I...
