In the early hours of the morning, when parents of little ones have been forced out of bed, MTV 2 airs old “Saved By The Bell” episodes. It’s like they know that’s when 30-somethings will tune in to MTV 2. It’s sad the amount of SBTB knowledge my husband and I have between the two of us. He has a problem. Seriously. It’s weird.

This was us as Zack and Kelly, Halloween 2008. It was a night of pre-kids frivolity at some local bars.

Charlotte loves catching an episode with us. She calls it the “big kids show.” I explained to her that Mommy and Daddy liked this show a lot when they were young. This led to her asking about other things I liked as a kid. I started telling her how “Mama liked Sesame Street and Strawberry Shortcake too!” She replied, “No Mama! What did you like when you were a big girl?”

Oh Lord. Where do I begin to explain the awesomeness of ’80’s and ’90’s pop culture? Later in the day I saw something about the 20th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death coming up soon. Naturally, this led to me singing Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” around the house. She asked, “What are you singing, Mama?” I explained it was a popular song when I was young. True story: My brother-in-law stayed home from school the day Kurt Cobain died. I mean, yes it was sad, but come on, Kevin. 

So I showed her “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” You’ll see her reaction. Well, whatever. Nevermind.

Many weekends of the last several months we have attended third birthday parties. We help our daughter keep up with the active social life of her 3-year-old peers. At each of these parties, parents have similar conversations that usually include a phrase like, “I don’t know what is wrong with Junior, lately! He/she has been awful! I thought the ‘Terrible Two’s’ were over!”

Oh, they ARE over. In my experience, the tantrums of the Terrible Two’s have nothing on the meltdowns of “Threenagers.”

My mom has always said of my sister and me that ages 3 and 15 were the worst. I remember the hormonal ups and downs and adolescent insecurity that led to all the dumb shit I did as a 15-year-old, but age 3? Yikes. I have very little recollection.

To my mother’s delight, my daughter’s behavior has brought back memories of my reign as a threenaged tyrant. Here’s evidence of a few of Charlotte’s latest mood swings:

She said to me the other day, “You’re ruining my life!” I had a friend tell me her 3-year-old son recently shouted, “You don’t understand me!”

Threenagers. ::sigh::

Don’t get me wrong. She’s not a bad kid. Actually, she can be incredibly delightful. In fact, she only has two moods since she turned three, wonderful or awful. There is no in-between. When she is happy, she bubbles over with infectious, sweet energy. As a 3-year-old she is able to express her happiness and gratitude better than when she was younger. But, the flip side of that?! Well, see the above photos. She pushes her limits and tests her independence. Sometimes she just melts down and can’t get it together.

Hmm. I guess that’s not unlike when I went off with my friend and got my cartilage pierced at the mall without telling my mom. But, I was named to the National Honor Society the same year. There was no in-between wonderful and awful at age 15. My parents managed my teenage awful with “grounding” or some other suitable punishment. We’re handling our threenager with time-out or taking away toys. It works okay, but sometimes I think teenagers and threenagers need an ass-whooping.

Disclaimer: I don’t really spank my kid. Calm down, haters. 

Tina Fey has been my idol for some time now. Then Sheryl Sandberg came along and I’m all like, “Gah! You are amazing! Thank you for all you do!” So, I was pretty psyched this morning when I read about the start of the Ban Bossy campaign.

I hate the word “bossy.” Hate it. Maybe it was because I was the target of “bossy” a lot as a child. I’m the oldest child and grandchild. I’m a natural extrovert with enthusiastic tendencies. My ideas for games and activities, coupled with my excitement, meant I often rallied the troops on the playground or in the neighborhood for some fun adventure or another. Sometimes this rubbed other kids the wrong way and I was called “bossy.” The worst was other neighborhood kids’ mothers calling me a “hot shot” or telling their kids not to put up with me being bossy. I don’t remember the same of the boys in the neighborhood. The boys were never criticized for being bossy. They were praised for being leaders. I was “pushy.” They were “persuasive.” It was crap.

 Me at age 9 or 10, likely hoping not to be called “bossy” for being myself.

The scourge of puberty and and my bossy label meant I occasionally shied away from my natural leadership tendencies as a young adolescent for fear of not being liked. I think for a lot of girls it is more important to be well-liked than respected. This follows many of us into womanhood, myself included. As it was pointed out in numerous articles today, “bossy” leads to “the other b-word.”

Someone implied that my three-year-old daughter might follow my footsteps and become “bossy” like her mother. This implication made my blood boil. This quote from Sandberg is the best. “I want every little girl who’s told she’s bossy to be told she has leadership skills.”

image: Wikipedia

So, I’m all about the #banbossy campaign and I salute Sandberg’s Lean In and the Girl Scouts for starting it, but I think it needs to go even further. This quote from Sarah Silverman really struck a chord with me. “Stop telling girls they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. I think it’s a mistake. Not because they can’t, but because it never would have occurred to them they couldn’t.” 

image: upr.org

Someone with the best intentions pointed out to my daughter the other day that “Girls can do anything boys can!” Blerg! Shhh! Of course they can! Why wouldn’t they?! Don’t point it out to her. She probably never would have thought of it if someone hadn’t brought it up. Stop talking about how “girls can play sports too!” Blah! Blah! Blah! Just sign them up for sports, let them run for office in their classes and if the issue of sexism comes up, address it then, but don’t make it an issue before it is.

My daughter just finished learning all about the presidents in preschool. She even wrote a letter to President Obama. I did not point out to her that none of the presidents were women. I refuse to make a big deal about Hillary Clinton running for office in 2016. When she wins and becomes the first woman president, I refuse to make a big deal about her being a woman to my kids.

For daughter AND my son, I want the idea of a woman president to be an obvious part of life. I want the idea of a female boss to be typical, and the idea that she was bossy to get there, bogus.

I want to thank my parents for my fine liberal arts education. My bachelor’s degree in Media Studies/Television Broadcasting was put to great use during my years in TV news and public relations. I only think of the Dance minor I completed when I look at my still calloused feet and reminisce about my 19-year-old figure. Why didn’t I appreciate that body?! And why did my parents let me minor in Dance?!

I couldn’t tell you much of what I learned in many of my undergraduate classes. Mythology, anyone? That knowledge only surfaces during the occasional Jeopardy round. There is one class that has stuck with me. Its lessons haunt me every time I pick up the obscene amount of princess toys my three-year-old daughter has.

Gender and Media Culture was some 300 level class I took as a senior elective in the Media Studies major. This course ruined everything for me. Every movie. Every fairy tale. Everything. Did you know that everything is a metaphor for deflowering a virgin girl? I didn’t either. Did you know that every story we were ever told or movie we ever enjoyed was subconsciously poisoning us as women into thinking we have to be saved by a man and that nothing is more important than physical attractiveness? Yeah. Now I know.

Everything was based on the “Cinderella Principle” or something.  Don’t quote me on this. Basically, you have to have the makeover and magical transformation of the woman/girl before she is deflowered. The movies we had to watch included “Boys Don’t Cry” and “The Accused,” complete with violent rape scenes. We also had to watch a film version of Little Red Riding Hood from the 80’s with some doe-eyed virgin who turns into a wolf. Naturally, a metaphor for virginity loss. (Found it! It’s 1984’s “The Company of Wolves.” Ugh.)

Like every 3-year-old girl I know, my daughter has been completely seduced by everything princess. Well played Disney marketers. Well played. She LOVES princesses and I’m left stomaching all the metaphors. I don’t want to pooh-pooh the princesses because that would be scoffing at something that she likes, and thus scoffing at her. Here is my visual representation of what goes through my mind when I look at her toys/movies/books:

These are a little better. My princess thoughts warranted another graphic. Here you go:

The new Disney movies are amazing! I love some of the newest princesses:

My daughter has seen and loves all of these movies except for Snow White. (I don’t know how to tap into the Disney vault. How do they keep that think “locked” in the Internet age? Granted, I haven’t tried that hard. ) I see her glowing face when she giggles at the mice in Cinderella and when she twirls in her Belle dress. I giggle when she sings the misheard lyrics of “When Will My Life Begin?” Plus, when Ariel does this…

…it is so freaking awesome, I can’t stand it. It was awesome in 1989. It’s awesome now.  That’s the thing. Even though I know all the metaphors and understand Disney princesses have extremely unrealistic hair, I love them. My daughter loves them too. So, I guess that’s why this weekend I grit will my teeth, bury my feminist fury and snuggle with my daughter on the couch to watch a princess movie. As a child I understood that these were fairy tales, why wouldn’t she? It’s up to me to make sure Cinderella is just a fun story and that I am the real female role model in her life.

So take THAT Gender and Media Culture professor! I will watch princess movies and I will love them! Well, before I start worrying about superhero cartoons and their unrealistic portrayal of masculinity and what it will mean for my infant son in a few years. Dammit liberal arts education strikes again!

Our three-year-old has become interested in what makes a girl a girl and a boy a boy. She asks, “Mama, what do girls have again?” She has obviously noticed her newborn brother’s different genitals during diaper changes. In her class at daycare they now have separate potties for Boys and Girls in the Threes class versus the tiny unisex toilets in the toddler rooms. This further emphasizes the differences. I was changing the baby’s diaper the other day and she said, “Mama! I see his peanuts!” We corrected her pronunciation of “penis” and stifled our giggles.

Okay. So we’ll have to be more diligent in our quest to make sure we use proper anatomical terms. One thing we have discussed is that private parts are private. We explained to our daughter that that others don’t touch your private parts. Only parents when they are helping you in the bath or the doctor. We have discussed with her that if anyone ever tries to touch her or keep secrets about that type of behavior, that she needs to tell us. I feel like she understands this and I’m glad. We want to make sure our child is not a victim of abuse.

I was unaware of how my parental diligence could hilariously backfire. Never underestimate a three-year-old. 

During a recent family road trip, we heard “I have to go potty!” from the back seat. We pulled off the interstate and I took her to the ladies room at a small town gas station. We took advantage of the larger handicapped stall. We were the only ones in the bathroom as she did her business. I didn’t think much of another woman coming in the bathroom and taking the stall next to us. I took my turn at the toilet.

She stood next to me restlessly, hanging on to the handicapped bar. With my pants down, hovering over the commode I heard my sweet child say loudly and firmly with conviction, “Mama! I will not touch your privates!”

::gasp::

::head smack::

I felt my face get really hot. I pictured this nameless woman behind the partition calling county services in this rural area to report a sexual deviant. I caught my breath and stuttered nervously, “Yes sweetie. That’s right. Private parts are private! Very good.” I then hurried her out of the stall and we washed our hands. I heard a flush. Oh God! I knew I’d have to look at this woman. I silently prayed she would see I was a nice mom with her private parts covered and not some pervert. I gave a polite, nervous smile. For some reason I felt like I needed to speak. I tend to talk too much in general, let alone when I’m nervous. I saw her college team on her sweatshirt and made some comment about their bowl game. Thankfully, this woman smiled at my daughter and didn’t seem phased by her bathroom proclamation.