Grandmom: From Princesses to Jocks

From Princesses to Jocks

This is a response to unsolicited e-messages I have been receiving lately from spokespersons for the "Anti-Princess Movement." Mature women, many of them mothers of girls, are uneasy about the "Someday my prince will come; only then will I live happily ever after" theme promoted in TV programming, toys, books, and revivals of classical fairy tales, aimed squarely at 4 year old girls.

Relax, friends; all that humility and overblown feminine vanity will dissipate in short order. I’ve just watched such a natural metamorphosis of my granddaughter and her friends in barely 4 years.

This weekend was all about being a mom and a grandmom, of course, topped off with the annual signs of love and appreciation — a dozen yellow roses (my favorite) and a gathering of moms and kids who love jazz, Chinese-American food, chicken fingers, ice cream, and cake. But it was also about celebrating the growth and development of our only granddaughter.

Eight years ago, my daughter’s and my best Mothers’ Day gift had been her baby girl’s arrival. In the middle of a line-up of beloved grandsons, there was a sudden interlude of pinkness and sugar and spice; a pause from pirates, trucks, tools, and action figures. So, although it was not my style, I was nonplussed by her 4th birthday celebration — a fancy tea party, where each girl donned the garments and crowns of a beautiful princess before politely munching on crustless jelly sandwiches, sipping make-believe tea poured from charming pots into delicate little cups, and then enjoying some sweets.

At that event, the girls' behavior matched their costumes. They were demure and regal. Not a voice was raised; in fact, some girls' mothers whispered to each other, 'Look how beautiful they feel!"

Our granddaughter’s 8th birthday party, held this weekend, was in startling contrast to that regal tea. The plan was the birthday girl’s own — an afternoon of bowling at a local alley, topped off with pizza and birthday cake. With images of the princess regalia still dancing in my head, I marveled at the power of the developmental process. Many of the same girls, this time outfitted in jeans, shorts, and rented bowling shoes that no prince would ever find at the end of a ball, were high-fiving, pumping fists after a remarkable score, shouting in a self-congratulatory way.

Many of these were friends from swim team or traveling soccer. The erstwhile princesses had found joy in becoming age-appropriate jocks. Moral of the story: I’d advise putting aside the anti-princess outrage. No picket signs or outraged letters to the editors needed. Just allow for the tincture of time.

May 13, 2008