My Beef with Disney
My kids and I like to walk through the toys aisles at the local discount store for a few minutes, as a reward for good behavior. With a two-year-old daughter, I’m starting to notice distinct “girl” aisles as I pass each row. An alarming amount of pink glows from one. Miniature imitations of household responsibilities call from another. And amid each glittery and girly display, familiar faces pop out at me from the shelves. It seems that my little girl is destined to be bombarded through backpacks, sleeping bags, and board games by the lure of the Disney Princesses.
I’ve never been all that captivated by the Disney form of romance. I do, however, have fond memories of my first viewing Cinderella and The Little Mermaid in the movie theaters, so when the anniversary editions came out for each, I bought them for our home collection.
After viewing both of these fun productions several times, I started mentally replaying the story lines of the popular princesses. With a bit of frustration and tarnished nostalgia, I’ve come to this conclusion: I’ve got a beef with Disney.
First of all, what is with the emphasis on kissing? I have yet to meet a girl who needs to be conditioned from infancy that her fate is to be determined by whether or not a boy is going to kiss her.
Poor Snow White and Sleeping Beauty owe their very lives to a prince they hardly knew or never met, who happened to pucker up at the right time and place.
Sure, Cinderella had a great time at a party with a guy who was kind enough to return her shoe, but that hardly makes him marriage material. My husband found my missing flip-flop the other day, but that doesn’t even make the list of why I’m glad I married him.
At least Bell fell in love with the Beast before she knew he was a prince but she still had to profess her love in order to save his life.
And then there’s poor, misguided Ariel. I’m not even going to mention that she continually disobeyed her father and everything turned out just peachy, or the fact she agreed to never see her family again, just to get a date with a guy. I’m just wondering what self-respecting mermaid is willing to change her entire species to be with a man she’s never even spoken too? Naturally, she only has three days to attract him, without the use of any verbal or mental connection, waiting for the culminating kiss to show his never-ending love for her. Besides, haven’t we all forgotten something? She’s sixteen! In most states, she would need King Triton to sign the papers for her to get married in the first place! And her “collection” of human stuff? I’d say that’s an obsessive-compulsive disorder with hoarding tendencies if ever I saw one.
There may have been sequels two and three, but I’m waiting for number four, the uncut look at what really happened once Ariel and Eric sat down to chat. There had to be years of arguing and therapy because they had nothing in common. And what did she do when the palace wanted to serve fish at every holiday and get together? Bet she didn’t think of that in Ursula’s cave.
I think I will stick with Dora as the preferred female licensed character in our house. Any girl that always has what she needs in her backpack, speaks two languages, and is willing to help her cousin rescue animals is okay by me (even if her best friend is a monkey). She can grace my daughter’s sippy-cup any day of the week. Now, if only Dora could find a t-shirt that covers up that tummy of hers.
Confessions of a Distracted Shopper
Pizza and bleach…pizza and bleach, I mutter to myself as I hurry towards the grocery store. With a hungry family at home, I am determined to keep my shopping brief and only buy the forgotten items from today’s earlier trip. I head for the row of carts, enjoying the solitude of shopping alone while my husband stays home with the kids.
As I reach for an available cart, I notice something in the baby seat of the cart next to me-a few green leaves left behind from a bouquet of flowers and a stuffed lavender envelope. Written on the envelope in a no-nonsense script are the words, “To Rosemary, (my wife).”
What an interesting inscription, I think to myself as I shop. Who is Rosemary? Is it her birthday? Anniversary? And why did her husband have to clarify “my wife” after her name? Are there other Rosemarys in his life, with whom she must compete?
I pick up the take-and-bake pizza and head through the checkout, grabbing a bottle of bleach along the way. Maybe they had a fight and he was trying to make it up to her, only to leave the thoughtful card behind! Poor, poor man; So hurried, so distracted!
I listen to the sounds of the parking lot and adjacent street as I stroll to my car still pondering the plot behind the remaining gift left behind. Do I leave things behind like that? Nah! I’m usually pretty good about picking up after myself. Sure, maybe the occasional receipt, or my children’s crumbs from free cookie samples, but nothing that would tell anyone about me.
I reach into my cart to load my groceries into the mini-van. I gasp. The cart is empty! Did I take the wrong cart? Did I even go through the checkout? Suddenly, I can’t remember if I paid for anything. I quickly return to the store to solve the mystery.
Searching the checkout stands, I find the familiar face of my cashier.
“I thought you’d be back!” She says, smiling as she gently pushes my groceries towards me.
“Thanks,” I say with a sigh. “I guess I had my head in the clouds.”
I sheepishly return to the car with my few items, and wonder how Rosemary’s husband is doing.
Mother Jekyll and Mama Hyde
It was a rough night. I didn’t see them do it, but I’m sure my three-year old son, his one-year-old sister, and the dog got together and planned it, each taking an assigned shift to disturb my slumber. Somehow, they even convinced my husband, on a subliminal level, to elbow me in the temple just hard enough to wake me without injury.
Our dog began the covert operation. At 12:30 a.m. she started whining to be let out. We usually don’t hear from her until morning, but someone had to signal the troops! I let her out the patio door, and I went back to bed.
At 1:30 a.m. a scream came from our toddler’s crib. I flew down the hall, and woke up mid-step in time to turn the doorknob and comfort her back to sleep. I returned to bed.
After 3:00 a.m. (I was too tired to make out anything but the first digit on the alarm clock), I woke to a small head in my armpit with the attached little boy mumbling the remains of a dream. I steered him back to his bed.
Sometime before sunrise came the elbow to my right temple, which caused me to cry out a mild expletive of disbelief. (I should mention here that I am the lighter sleeper of our parenting duo, and my husband is a very involved partner and father when not in the fierce grip of disoriented sleep).
In my exhausted state, I could have sworn I heard a sarcastic chuckle from the sunshine creeping through my bedroom window a few hours later. I dragged myself out of bed, gave my husband an exhausted, barely-puckered kiss good-bye as he left for work and prepared the kids for the drive to pre-school. On the way, I revived myself with a tall glass of ice water (and by “ice-water” I mean a 32 oz. cola) and faced the sluggish day ahead.
I wish I could say this was a rare experience. I am often amazed at the small amount of sleep on which I manage to survive. No matter how much people warn you about those sleepless nights of parenthood, there is no way to physically or emotionally prepare for them. Most nights, I go to bed unsure how long it will be before I am awakened prematurely. I often wonder which personality I will feel like by morning—Mother Jekyll or Mama Hyde?
At the end of this particularly tiring day, I fell into bed, recapped the night before to my husband, and dreamed of a better night’s sleep. As I nuzzled my head into the pillow, I felt the frustration of caring for everyone all day and night melt away, and quickly drifted into slumber.
Suddenly, I was pulled away from the approaching rest to the sound of my husband’s concerned voice.
“So what do we need to do around here to get you more sleep?”
Fashion 101
A secret fear haunts me at the grocery market or local discount store. I shutter to even mention it! As I’m out with my children, running errands or picking up a birthday present for a party, I suspiciously scan my surroundings, investigate around clothing racks, and peer behind me. I know it will happen someday. They’ll get me! All I can do is pray to avoid being the target of a makeover show looking to ambush some poor woman stuck in a comfortable-clothing rut.
It’s not that I don’t like to dress nice, but it hurts to throw away good clothes when they get stained from sticky fingers. I’d rather wear a cheap t-shirt and toss it without guilt when needed, than buy an endless supply of soon to be destroyed clothing.
I blame it on my stage of life. Since having children, the desire to look “cute” has been substituted for the need to feel “clean.” No matter what the makeover shows say, comfort IS key when you are constantly caring for children. What is a person supposed to wear when they spend each day as a personal napkin and human jungle gym?
I’ve had it with feeling like a fashion inferior. Forget the so-called style experts! It’s time to embrace a new fashion philosophy. Personal style is the key, and my eighteen-month-old daughter understands that perfectly. You won’t find her flipping through magazines for the latest Baby Gap advertisement. She has a style all her own, and it works.
For example, the other day as we dressed for church, she decided her red velvet dress with the embellished belt buckle would look best with her white and purple sneakers. An interesting choice, considering she was wearing her light blue sweat suit only an hour before with her black, patton leather, ankle strap dress shoes. Sure, it’s gutsy, but I see what she’s trying to say. Be bold! Be unique! I don’t need a stylish, head-to-toe outfit–just a little something special that makes me memorable.
After eating breakfast this morning, we prepare for our usual trip to the gym. She picks out her Halloween shirt with the girly skull and crossbones, and carefully pairs them with her silver dress-up shoes, with lavender fur across the strap. A refreshing combination!
I dress in my regular workout clothes and inspect my make-up free, ponytail wearing reflection in the mirror. Something is missing. What will pull together my black sweat pants, white t-shirt and athletic shoes?
I nod with satisfaction. Fire engine red lipstick!
The perfect outfit is born.
What the Picture Doesn’t Show You
When I received the acceptance from Mommies Magazine to be an online columnist, I was thrilled and quickly started typing up ideas at my computer. I completed every request to get the column up on the web, except one thing: a picture of myself. I wasn’t trying to stall, I just didn’t have the time to take a picture, or rarely looked “presentable” for a photograph.Finally, I took charge! One day, as my youngest napped, I prepared for my personal photo shoot. I put on make up, fixed my hair a bit, and changed into my favorite top (which didn’t even make it into the picture). Being the only adult in the house at the time, I took the picture myself.
Even though he picture shows a content mother, smiling and happy (and I am), the following list shows the background story–my story–everyday.
Top 10 Things the Picture Doesn’t Show You:
10. Blue’s Clues was on in the background.
9. From the knee down, my jeans were covered in sand and dirt from playing at the park a few hours earlier.
8. I only curled the front of my hair. The back of my hair had a giant kink from wearing a ponytail.
7. I was wearing athletic shoes I bought from the Men’s department so they would fit the orthotics I need to wear when possible (try building a feminine outfit around that!).
6. I had three goldfish crackers in my jeans pocket. I picked them up off the bathroom floor so my toddler wouldn’t eat them.
5. The above-mentioned toddler (who woke up before I could take the picture) was hugging my left knee, banging her head against my leg, and laughing hysterically
4. My bathroom shower curtain was the photo background. Since I took the picture myself, I relied on the reflection of the LCD screen in the bathroom mirror to know I was in the shot.
3. I didn’t get to view the pictures until later, because my children started fighting over the camera, and I had to put it out of reach.
2. After the picture, I changed back into my t-shirt and put my hair up into a ponytail again.
And the #1 thing the picture doesn’t show (and my personal favorite):
1. I had toothpaste on my shoulder, and I still have no idea how it got there.
