It was bound to happen sometime. We’ve gladly, happily, been a Disney-princess-free household since Saoirse was born. Not forsaking the girls’ happiness, mind you–it’s not like we’ve gone all Cruella deVille and subjected the kids to an anti-princess rampage–but David and I’ve intentionally never encouraged the princess stuff, and luckily (for us–this is just how we feel, for our family. If you read Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter, you’ll see why we get all quietly rage-y about it), the girls grew up playing with Lightning McQueen and Mater in their fairy costumes, and making up stories using their toy trains as “people.” And because of the girls’ total lack of interest in them, no doe-eyed princesses made an appearance into our little world, and for that we were…relieved.
And then Frozen happened. Frozen, with all it’s gotta-be-me messages, and sisterly love, and forget-you-I-don’t-need-no-man battle cry. Frozen happened, and my spring has turned into an eternal winter. The movie, the soundtrack, Anna and Elsa and Olaf–they’re all as part of my life as the endless piles of crumbs I sweep out from under the kitchen table each day, and just as hard to contain. It’s everywhere we look:
Dave’s really got to get it together. The girls are starting to get embarrassed.
The girls are not into Frozen, in the way other children are into Frozen, with…