President Versus Magician

It should be no secret that I want to raise strong, independent daughters.  Daughters who will shatter the glass ceiling.  Daughters who can do anything they want.  Daughters who earn the same wage as their brother.  Daughters who, as I have mentioned here, could be president one day. 

When we were at the toy store the other day, to spend their allowance, I saw this:

 

I immediately began to lobby hard for her to buy it.  It was a woman president.  It could stand on her own two feet (literally and figuratively).  It was a non-princess Barbie doll.  Wasn't it awesome?  I asked Girlie.  It even had a pink suit. 

"It's okay," she said, shrugging.  "But I want this one!"

A Magician Barbie.  In a revealing dress.  

"Why?" I asked a bit desperately.  "Why Magician Barbie and not President Barbie?"

"Magician Barbie has a bunny," Girlie pointed out.

How do I argue with that logic?  

At least it was the Magician and not the Magician's Assistant.

F-A-T

I've mentioned here how hard it is to raise girls -- how I need to have high self esteem so that they do.  I have to be the role model they look up too.  

Still, after 4 kids, my body has been through the wringer.  And with a colicky baby and 4 kids under the age of 6, getting to the gym frequently is a pipe dream.  And a healthy diet?  Ha!  I eat whatever I can grab in the 10 seconds a day I have between the kids, the dog, the house, and work. Hell, getting 5 hours of sleep straight would be manna from heaven. 

Why do I mention this?  We baptized BabyBug last week.  Which meant that I needed to wear something other than yoga pants and a spit up stained sweat shirt.

But nothing in my closet fit because I'm stuffing my face with Girl Scout Cookies at every available opportunity and only doing half of a work out once every ten days.  

So I decided to head to the mall, Girlie in tow, for some girl time.  But nothing there fit either.  I took picture after picture to send to my sisters for their opinion, but nothing worked.  I wasn't feeling it. 

I was fat.  And tired.  And, sweet Jesus, I looked old.  And whoever decided that three way mirrors were a good idea should be shot.  

And what was worse?  I couldn't denigrate myself because Girlie was with me.  I couldn't say my arms are too flabby or my butt is too big or my stomach is too poochy.  I didn't want her to think it was okay to say that about your own body.  I want her to love her body, no matter what.  I am trying to show her how to love her body by loving mine, but I just couldn't.

I felt fat.  And I couldn't call myself fat.  And I couldn't spell it out either, because she learned to read. 

So I was frustrated, and miserable, and wanted to cry.   And it was when I tried on this that she said the one thing that made me feel beautiful: 

No, I didn't buy this.  Ultimately, I decided on pants so I didn't have to shave my legs.

"Mommy, you look like a princess!"

She doesn't know that my butt is too big, that I still have a "love pouch," from where I carried her and her brother and sisters, or that I have what my sisters affectionately call "teacher flab" arms.  She doesn't know that I need to go to the gym and stick to my diet.  She had not idea that the sheer blouse was too boxy, or the skirt was too long, or that my double chin makes an appearance when I smile too big.  

To her, I am a princess. 

Smart and Strong and Power

I've mentioned before - a few times - how I want to raise Girlie to be stong and independent and to think of herself as more than a pretty face or a princess.

And I believe I've mentioned that I am struggling with how to do so.

So I was quite pleased when Girlie told me the other day that she is "smart and strong."

"That's right!" I told her, mentally patting myself on my back.

"And I have power and I have to use it to fight the bad guys. And mean dogs," she continued.

"You are absolutely correct," I told her. "You are smart. And you are strong. And you do have power. But I don't want you to fight bad guys or mean dogs. I want you to tell Mommy or Daddy or the police."

"Okay," she told me with a scary gleam in her eye. "I will use my power to fight the bad guys. And then I'll kill them! And then I'll tell Daddy and the police."

Scrambling, since I was unaware that "kill them" was in her vocabulary, I debated telling her that if she killed anyone, I didn't want to know. However, I decided to be a responsible parent instead, and I inquired as to what "kill them," means.

"It means to hurt them so they can't hurt you. And you have to use your power and your smarts and your strengths."

"Right," I said slowly. "But how do you hurt them?"

"You fight them with a light saber."

No more Star Wars.

My son is the Hulk. I swear.

~

I went outside today during naptime to take a quick call. Since both my kids were sleeping, I figured it wouldn't be a problem. I came back inside to find this:

which led me to this:


which led me to this:

Child proof gate, my a@#