My six-year-old and I were watching America’s Next Top Model the other day because there’s really nothing wrong with that. A girl’s got to have role models. While I was feeling a teeny bit guilty about exposing my baby to a world of snorting and gagging she sprung it on me:
“Can I be a model?”
The damage had been done.
“Sure you can,” I said. “You can be anything.” I went into Lame Mom damage control mode. “Let me tell you about Nancy Pelosi.”
It happened to be a couple of days after Ms. (do we still say that?) Pelosi became Speaker of the House. You may remember Kodak-worthy Nancy taking the podium with her grandchild. I didn’t care that it was a total set-up. Nothing says Momma like a baby on your hip. And isn’t that what our nation desperately needs now? A good dose of mothering? Brittany sure does, and George Bush too.
Maybe I’m idealistic, but there’s a reason they set up that image for Pelosi. Women and children are a package deal. So thanks, Nancy, for bringing that little package to the senate floor. I want my daughter know that she can be a baby-making-machine and anything else she wants to be. I want her to believe she won’t be judged on looks and sweetness alone.
But our daughters need younger role models - a tad older and wiser than Hannah Montana, but not quite Oprah.
I vote for Pink - the rock star.
Despite her profanity, I want to pipe Pink’s message into my daughter’s brain while she sleeps, to counter the effects of Paris and Lindsay. But the manicured, suburban part of me wants to shield her from Pink’s tats and Kool-Aid colored hair even though that’s exactly what makes her unique and not another copy of something she saw in a magazine.
Be yourself, Sweetie, but look respectable would you?
Most of all, I want my daughter to have an answer when someone whispers behind her back: Who does she think she is? Because heaven help you if you get too happy or too confident. Too old, too young, too opinionated, too pretty, too ugly, too happy, too sad. God forbid you are too much yourself. We’re told to take our meds and get over ourselves.
When I crank Pink and hurl out the obscenities along with her, I don’t care what anybody thinks. That’s what I want for my daughter – sans the sailor mouth, of course.
But I couldn’t say all that. Not to a first grader. So I instead I put on some lipstick, and blah-blah-blahed about women and society and important jobs and maybe, just maybe a woman President very soon.
My daughter’s eyes popped.
“I’ll be President,” she said, leaving me feeling redeemed.
“And if nobody votes for me--” she added brightly. “-- I’ll be a model.”
Girl power – gotta love our choices.
“Can I be a model?”
The damage had been done.
“Sure you can,” I said. “You can be anything.” I went into Lame Mom damage control mode. “Let me tell you about Nancy Pelosi.”
It happened to be a couple of days after Ms. (do we still say that?) Pelosi became Speaker of the House. You may remember Kodak-worthy Nancy taking the podium with her grandchild. I didn’t care that it was a total set-up. Nothing says Momma like a baby on your hip. And isn’t that what our nation desperately needs now? A good dose of mothering? Brittany sure does, and George Bush too.
Maybe I’m idealistic, but there’s a reason they set up that image for Pelosi. Women and children are a package deal. So thanks, Nancy, for bringing that little package to the senate floor. I want my daughter know that she can be a baby-making-machine and anything else she wants to be. I want her to believe she won’t be judged on looks and sweetness alone.
But our daughters need younger role models - a tad older and wiser than Hannah Montana, but not quite Oprah.
I vote for Pink - the rock star.
Despite her profanity, I want to pipe Pink’s message into my daughter’s brain while she sleeps, to counter the effects of Paris and Lindsay. But the manicured, suburban part of me wants to shield her from Pink’s tats and Kool-Aid colored hair even though that’s exactly what makes her unique and not another copy of something she saw in a magazine.
Be yourself, Sweetie, but look respectable would you?
Most of all, I want my daughter to have an answer when someone whispers behind her back: Who does she think she is? Because heaven help you if you get too happy or too confident. Too old, too young, too opinionated, too pretty, too ugly, too happy, too sad. God forbid you are too much yourself. We’re told to take our meds and get over ourselves.
When I crank Pink and hurl out the obscenities along with her, I don’t care what anybody thinks. That’s what I want for my daughter – sans the sailor mouth, of course.
But I couldn’t say all that. Not to a first grader. So I instead I put on some lipstick, and blah-blah-blahed about women and society and important jobs and maybe, just maybe a woman President very soon.
My daughter’s eyes popped.
“I’ll be President,” she said, leaving me feeling redeemed.
“And if nobody votes for me--” she added brightly. “-- I’ll be a model.”
Girl power – gotta love our choices.
1 comments:
Could use Bette Midler. She was my idol as a kid.
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