Peggy Orenstein's latest book has been all the buzz these days. In Cinderella Ate My Daughter , she waxes poetic about how the Princess Industrial Complex (apparently a term she coined) corrupted her daughter. After two years caring for her daughter at home, she sends her to preschool. Within a week, she learns the names of all the Disney Princesses from her peers. Despite her best intentions, the outside world proceeds to fill her daughter's head with princess dreams. The waitress at the diner brings her princess pancakes . The dentist has a princess chair . Orenstein is frustrated by all of this emphasis on girly images. Her argument is that fixation on presumed gender roles at such a young age creates an ongoing distorted view of beauty, feminism, and sexuality. Ok, Peggy. I hear your argument. I get it. On a certain level, I understand it and relate to it. I was raised by a feminist. I wasn't allowed to play with Barbie dolls (or at least have my own
My periodic musings on life.