I've whined about this before, but my level of despair is unmitigated by the repetition of this travesty.
Snooty talkin' makes me feel better. You'll understand why in a minute.
Hannah asked to go to the bookstore this evening. Of course! If there's something I'll blow money on in a red-hot second, I mean beside shoes, it's books for my girl! They've rearranged our Barnes & Noble, so there were books of myths and folklore where I expected to find Pinkalicious. Nice surprise for me. Although I don't object to that particular bit of literary confection. It's not bad stuff for girls. But what I found was a nice hard-bound volume of folktales where the heroes are girls. The author makes a big point of not calling them heroines, because she doesn't want any hint of the diminutive in her book. It's Clarissa Pinkola-Estes for the pre-tween set.
We sat on the floor and read one of the stories; I attracted a child whose mother was reading Vogue down the aisle. She did keep trying to distract me by pulling other books off the shelf to show me (she seemed about 4 years old), but I would not be distracted from the Tale of Mollie Whuppie. She outsmarts a girl-eating giant four times! No one comes to her rescue. She kicks some giant butt, and doesn't whine about it. That's my kind of bedtime story. My other all-time favorite book is
I can recite it for you sometime if you want.
All I want is for my daughter to be independent, not love glitter and lip gloss, and be prepared to tell a boy he's a bum if he complains about her appearance after she rescues him from a dragon. But what does my child choose? My dearest love, my precious girl chooses to read this drivel:
International subterfuge: Maybe.
Mass produced tripe for girls: Never.
Oh, and, um: I'm just kidding about the subterfuge, guys. Didn't I mention that using big words makes me feel better.