During a Costco run this past weekend, the theoretical flaming hand of feminist righteousness cocked itself in the children’s apparel aisle. My daughter — a three-year old who loves ninjas, tattoos, and the color pink — spotted and asked for a Cinderella pajama set emblazoned with the phrase “princess-in-waiting.” My husband, who cannot say no to her sad pouty face, thought nothing of it and moved to put it in the cart. No.
I do not want to raise my daughter or son with the notion that damsels in distress can only be saved by dashing princes; those damsels can damned well save themselves. More so, I want my daughter to grow up with the mindset that she is a ruler with the world in her hands, not a subject to be ruled by the hand of another.
I picked up a Darth Vader one instead. She refused and my husband raised a quizzical brow. He’s known me for over a decade and we’ve been married for seven years. He still doesn’t know me?
I’d rather my kid rock an affinity to a failed middle manager than a negative stereotype in which a woman’s freedom and advancement — nay, the point of her very existence in life — comes at the hand of a man. At the very least, Lord Vader made his own power-plays and tried to get shit done on his own.
We compromised with Wonder Woman pajamas.