“Mama! Mama! Help! Polly is drowning!”
I was in the middle of mixing up cornbread batter when I heard the cry for help. I dropped the spoon and ran down the hall way.
My 4 year old daughter stood in front of the toilet. Her hands were placed on her cheeks as if she’d just witnessed a murder.
“What happened honey?”
“Zebbie flushed my Polly Pocket down the toilet and she can’t swim!”
I squatted down, put my hands on her little round shoulders and tried to offer some comforting words.
“Polly will be fine. I’m sure she’ll find the sword that he flushed yesterday. And with that sword, she can paddle her way back to the surface. She’ll be fine.”
“But she doesn’t have a boat mommy.”
I had to think quick, she was right, I had not seen a boat get flushed. But that didn’t mean one did notget flushed.
“Well, I have not seen the little red boat Zebbie used to play with in the bathtub- I think he sent that one down last week. So, you see, Polly has a boat waiting for her.”
A smile emerged, and the tears dried up.
“Oh, Zebbie flushed those red Barbie shoes last night, so she’ll have those too, won’t she mommy?”
“Yes, she’s got everything she needs: Pretty red, high-heeled shoes, a boat and a sword.”
I thought about that for a minute. What am I teaching my daughter about life with these words? I’d read enough about child-rearing to challenge B.F Skinner. What would Gloria Steinem think of me? But in this particular moment, comforting my daughter seemed paramount to giving my daughter a lecture about feminism. Why did offering red high-heeled shoes-as a symbol of comfort-bring on a hint of guilt? I mean, this image was completely contrary to everything I’d learned in college about ‘bridging the sexes.’
But, wasn’t I teaching her that with the right tools, we can handle any situation? Yes, that was what I was doing. This was a good moment, not one I should feel guilty over.
Later on that evening, after we’d had our cornbread and green beans, my two youngest children and I snuggled up on the sofa for a story. It was Lilly’s turn to pick the book.
“Let’s read Cinderella!”
We took turns with the parts. She loved to play the evil step-mother and put on a semi-British accent as she told the story. As we got to the part where the fairy god-mother enters the scene, Lilly asked, “Why didn’t Cinderella have any nice dresses?”
“Her step-mother didn’t buy her any.”
“Well Cinderella did all the work, so didn’t she have all the money?”
Hmmm. She did have a point with that one. I mulled it over for a couple of minutes, trying to stall her while I came up with a logical answer.
“Well, the step-mother doesn’t really have the money. Cinderella’s father has the money, and he gives it to his wife. She’s just mean and doesn’t want to buy Cinderella any clothes.”
“She’s just not a nice person.” I said, hoping to move on to the next section of the story.
Zebbie squirmed around on the sofa, waiting patiently for his turn.
“Cinderella needs to tell her daddy that her step-mother is mean.” My son interjected.
“That would be a good idea.”
I turned the page and let my son tell the part about Cinderella losing her slipper.
“The step-sister tried to force her foot into the shoe, but it was too small for her foot.” Both children sat quietly, listening to the end of the story. "Finally, the prince found Cinderella, and they got married and lived happily-ever after." After I closed the book my daughter asked, “Mamma, did Cinderella ever tell her daddy about how mean her step-mother was?”
I knew this was an important question. I could tell that this issue was bothering both of my children. Cinderella had been a victim, and what would her loving father have said to her if she had told him about the mistreatment.
“Yes, she did tell her daddy. And you know what he said to Cinderella?” ‘I never would have bought this house for your step-mother if I’d known the way she was going to treat you, that’s why tomorrow I’m going to burn it down.’
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