One dad struggles to find a Disney antidote.
By Joe Siple
Three-year-old girls love princesses. I get it. And despite being a dad—and an active outdoorsman—I can handle it. So she wants to wear frilly dresses around the house now and then? Fine. Watch Cinderella occasionally? Sure. I’ve even become immune to my daughter running around wearing nothing but underwear, because “you can’t have a fishy tail like Ariel’s if you have pants on.”
But after a trip to Disney World last spring, princess mania hit the threshold of my tolerance. We’ve been in Princess Cleansing Mode ever since.
For parents like me who value nature, adventure, and exercise, the grip that Disney princesses can have over our girls is more than just annoying—it’s unhealthy. Our daughters don’t just watch the cartoons that these princesses star in; they absorb them. While we’re paying bills, washing dishes, or sitting with our girls but letting our minds wander, they’re sizzling every word, every lyric they hear into their memories. And the lessons conveyed aren’t always beneficial.
Sure, Belle likes to read and has a mind of her own. Ariel is courageous and saves the prince, for a change. But Sleeping Beauty? Snow White? Cinderella? I could do without my daughter learning that women are supposed to rely on men, or that money and stature make men worthy. So I decided to take action. I bought my daughter some hiking boots.
She had been fascinated with my boots for a while, but I had never considered that buying her a pair may do her some good. After all, she already had a pair of shoes—with flashing lights and princesses on the sides.
“Where can I find girls’ hiking boots?” I asked the woman working at Famous Footwear.
She gave me a sideways glance. “Don’t think they make them,” she replied.
I perused the store shelves anyway and found the perfect pair—in the boys’ section. Apparently hiking is a boy thing. Not so in our household. For the next month, my daughter was enthralled with her new hiking boots. We tromped around the foothills, and she kicked the dirt trail the entire way to make sure even the smallest rocks couldn’t get into her boots. I haven’t seen the princess shoes since.
But that was easy. That was in the spring, right after my daughter had gotten her princess fix at Disney World. She may have even been feeling slight princess overload. Thistime of year brings the biggest enemy of Princess Cleansing Mode: Christmas presents. In-laws send Sleeping Beauty figurines. Aunts and uncles send books—not Colorado’s Best Family Hikes, but The Little Mermaid, Ariel’s Beginning, or some other unfortunate sequel. Last year my daughter received a Disney castle, complete with every princess doll imaginable. It was exactly what she wanted. So to prepare for this Christmas, I began working on her months ago.
“When Christmas comes this year, would you rather have another princess thing or your own pair of skis?” I asked, putting all the excitement I could muster into the word “skis.”
“Princess thing,” she answered.
“But don’t you think it would be really cool to have your own skis for when we go to the big mountains?”
“I don’t know. Does Sleeping Beauty ski?”
“No, babe, Sleeping Beauty doesn’t ski.” I shook my head in misery and lowered my forehead to the table. Of course Sleeping Beauty doesn’t ski, I wanted to say. She’s a spoiled, brainless, rich girl who falls for some random stranger who kisses her while she’s sleeping. People like that go to jail; they don’t win the girl.
But as I studied my daughter’s expression, I experienced a small shift in thinking. Maybe Disney princesses aren’t completely bad. They live in imaginary, magical worlds and our daughters get a lot of joy from watching and reading their stories. So even though I don’t want princesses to be my daughter’s primary interest, maybe there is some room for compromise. Maybe I can even paint princesses in a different light.
“Sleeping Beauty doesn’t ski, kiddo,” I said. “But I heard that she’s an amazing snowboarder.”
