My daughters couldn’t be more different from one another. My six-year-old, a delicate little thing, possesses a surprising inner strength. She’s a slender sprite, complete with frizzy hair, knobby knees, and impossibly skinny arms and legs. Despite her fragile appearance, she radiates an undeniable energy that seems to lift her above the world around her.
In contrast, my three-year-old is adorably plump. Nearly as tall as her older sister, she carries an infant-like sensitivity that often takes center stage. With the face of a toddler and the emotional maturity to match, she oscillates between giggles and tears, easily crumbling into a soft heap if she senses disapproval.
Visually, they are strikingly different. My six-year-old has bright blonde hair and striking blue eyes, while my youngest, like me, sports dark brown hair and rich brown eyes. Interestingly, my older daughter resembles her father while the younger one is a mini-me. My mother-in-law often chimes in, lovingly reminding me that my older daughter has inherited her petite stature, while the younger one clearly takes after me with her chubby cheeks. It’s quite the conversation starter, especially when people question if they are actually siblings—one brave soul even asked if they share the same parents!
These two girls embody a fascinating mix of physical and emotional contrasts. The one thing they do share is a passion for princesses—princess movies, dolls, and attire. This is something I’ve wrestled with, given my own educational background.
Having attended an all-girls school from sixth to twelfth grade, I understand the value of strong female role models. One English teacher, in particular, left a lasting impression on me. She passionately criticized the portrayal of women in literature, declaring that introducing girls to princess narratives does them a disservice. “What are we teaching our future women?” she would ask, shaking her head. “That their greatest aspiration is to don a pretty dress, have beautiful hair, and find a prince? We are capable of so much more!”
Fast forward two decades: here I am, surrounded by a sea of princess-themed toys. I have made sure my daughters have a variety of other options—train tables brimming with plastic dinosaurs, Matchbox cars, and Legos—but they consistently gravitate back to the allure of princesses. I could certainly restrict their access to these toys, but I believe that forbidding something only enhances its appeal. Books, on the other hand, are a different story. They enjoy a wide range of literature and seldom request a Disney Princess book, which I’m grateful for.
Whenever my daughters opt for a princess toy over something I deem more empowering, I hear the echo of my high school teacher’s voice: “What are we teaching our future women?” Guilt washes over me, and I worry about whether I’m failing the women who fought for my rights. Will my daughters grow to be strong and independent? Will they learn about true girl power? I strive to encourage them to tackle challenges and demonstrate problem-solving skills. Their father’s work often keeps him away until after bedtime, which has reinforced their understanding that if something needs doing, it’s up to mom. I want them to know they can be both nurturing and resilient. But is that enough?
Recently, at the park, my daughters were busy playing in the sandbox when an older boy approached my youngest and snatched her shovel without so much as a word. She immediately burst into tears, while he walked away, shovel in hand. My six-year-old, observing this, stood up and approached the boy. I held my breath, silently urging her not to whine, plead, or cry. Yet, I also didn’t want her to shout or shove him. To my amazement, she fixed him with an icy glare, and after a tense moment, he handed her the shovel. The best part? She thanked him politely.
After reclaiming the shovel, she returned to her little sister, and they resumed their play, digging deeper into the sand. I felt a rush of pride as I watched them. The grit my older daughter displayed in defending her sister would have made any feminist proud.
So, go ahead, my girls—play with your princesses if that’s what you desire today. If you can show strength and grace when it counts, you’re destined to thrive.
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In summary, parenting is all about balancing the lessons we want to impart with the realities our children embrace. Encouraging strength in our daughters, regardless of their affinity for princesses, is what truly matters.
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