Sunday, January 07, 2007
“Extreme Mom” Makeover - January 7, 2007
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Labels: "Extreme Mom" Makeover
