In her early years, my daughter Mia frequently declared, often with exuberance, “I have to be pretty!” This phrase often accompanied her choice of a vibrant pink dress over pants, and I instinctively wanted to push back against this notion. I worried that her fixation on beauty might hinder her abilities, especially when it came to playing at the playground. “But I don’t want to climb! I need to be PRETTY!” she would insist.
Initially, I attributed her obsession to the well-meaning comments from strangers who would exclaim, “What a pretty pink dress you have!” I felt an urge to confront those individuals for instilling a narrow definition of beauty in my daughter, one that could lead to a lifetime of unsolicited remarks about her appearance—an unfortunate precursor to more serious issues later in life.
As Mia’s desire to embody “pretty” grew stronger, I came to understand that it wasn’t merely societal conditioning; it was an integral part of her identity and a form of self-expression. This realization shifted my perspective as a conscientious parent. My role wasn’t to challenge her affinity for all things feminine but to support it while also critiquing the pervasive and often detrimental aspects of gendered marketing directed at children. This task proved daunting and compelled me to confront my own biases regarding femininity.
Growing up in the 1980s in a Scottish middle-class environment, I observed a culture that valued tomboys while looking down upon those who embraced traditionally feminine interests. Despite my longing to partake in the joy of pink dresses and My Little Ponies, I felt compelled to distance myself from those “silly” things, often mocking them to fit in with peers who rejected femininity. This internal conflict likely shaped my perspective on gender roles, leading to a form of femmephobia that many still face today.
As I navigated Mia’s journey, I recognized a troubling pattern: even girls who are encouraged to embrace femininity often learn that their choices render them less respected. The societal narrative suggests that an interest in fashion or beauty is trivial. Although I believed I had moved beyond these outdated notions, I found myself hiding her tutu out of discomfort, plagued by the unsolicited “pretty princess” comments from passersby.
This prompted a moment of introspection. The tutu itself wasn’t the issue; it was my perception of “pretty” that needed reevaluation. There is nothing inherently wrong with wishing to be pretty—as long as that desire isn’t dictated by a narrow societal standard. The real concern arises when beauty is equated solely with specific physical attributes or when external validation becomes the driving force behind one’s self-worth.
What I had overlooked was that for Mia, “pretty” transcended conventional attractiveness. It represented a form of adornment—dresses, accessories, vibrant colors. When she remarked, “Mommy, you’re not pretty today,” she simply meant I needed to brighten my wardrobe. When she claimed, “I’m the prettiest,” it was a lighthearted observation based on who wore the most jewelry.
Of course, I know there are challenges ahead. Mia will inevitably encounter societal standards that dictate who is considered pretty and who isn’t. It will be an uphill battle to counteract the entrenched beliefs surrounding beauty. However, I aim to hold on to the valuable insight she has provided: that “pretty” is an action, not an inherent trait, and it should never be dismissed as frivolous. Furthermore, I’ve learned that the tutu is never the problem.
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In summary, my daughter’s innocent and unwavering belief in the importance of pretty has encouraged me to embrace a more nuanced understanding of beauty, allowing me to foster her self-expression while critically engaging with the societal pressures surrounding femininity.