
In my house, 2014 feels like it’s been sponsored by Disney.
Frozen. Frozen. Frozen. We have Elsa costumes, we have the DVD on high-rotation. The CD’s playing in the car. We have Elsa and Anna action figures, we go to Frozen parties, we eat Frozen cake.
The look on my daughter’s face here pretty much sums it up:
But that’s not all. When my almost-5-year-old isn’t tugging on her hair, willing it to grow so she can have an ‘Elsa plait’, she’s ‘being’ Ariel. Ariel the Little Mermaid, who’s been swimming around pop culture since 1989.
My daughter has many, many questions about Ariel.
“How can she hold her breath underwater for so long?” She’s a mermaid.
“Can I be a Mermaid when I grow up?” That would be a no.
“Do sharks eat mermaids?” I would guess, yes.
I fought the Disney princesses for a long time. And then they beat me. My pre-preschooler instincts were that they were lousy role models, and that they promoted a very particular, very narrow view of what women were – in need of saving.
But parenting stiffens your spine in so many ways, and chills you out in so many others. Now that I live in Princess Land. I’ve made my peace. Or have I given up? I suppose I have decided that are many, many more serious things to worry about than the influence of Ariel, Elsa and her mates.