On heroine

When we first found out that kid #2 was going to be, in fact, kids #2 and 3 (and girls, for that matter) I had two initial reactions. My instantaneous response, of course, was to fall onto the floor, curl up into a ball and mutter over and over again "we're fucked." However, once I realized that other people were still in the room and that some form of masculine composure might be appropriate - and eventually pulled myself up from beneath the ultrasound table - I came to the realization that I knew absolutely nothing about dealing with little girls. (Which prompted another fun round of semi-muttered obscenities.)

Why? Because, to that point, my experience with and understanding of small children was limited to the male of the species. Kid #1 was (and still is) a boy, and I myself was a boy when I was a child. (It's true.) What I'd learned to that point was that in boys are generally pretty straightforward. They think they're destined to rule the universe, they're usually wrong, and the discord between those two facts provides the dynamic that drives them through life. Almost everything else is just a variation off of those two themes. Girls? Crimony. They were a mystery to me when I was a kid, and I'd acquired little-to-no new understanding of them since. Who knew what went through their heads, motivated them, guided them, and shaped them on their way from infancy to adulthood? Not I, said the cat. Not I, said the dog. Not I, said I.

Twin girls? Yeah. I was fucked.

Of course, once they arrived it was a different story almost from the get-go. I won't regale you with details of their twinfancy, both because it was a freakin' nightmare and because I've successfully blocked most of it from my memory, but once they progressed beyond the screaming/spewing/"I'm-a-newborn-spud" mode and into legit smiling, making-eye-contact, wrapping-me-around-their-clawed-little-fingers toddlerism and kidhood, I'd progressed well beyond my capacity for generalized "what the hell do I do with little girls" anxiety. (In some circles - such as leper colonies - this is known as "accepting doom.") I guess this is in large part because they were no longer abstract "little girls"... they were real, tangible, strong-willed and extremely vocal little entities who'd infested and consumed my life like the alien weeds from The Ruins. 

As they've grown and complexified like fine wines, however (think of them as a spicy little zin and a more full-bodied but still young cabernet), I've found myself occasionally confronted with the reality that I'm not the only one who doesn't understand little girls — and that while I within the walls of Castle TwoBusy we may embrace and support their rugged, often insane individualism and willingness to dance to their own drummers, the military-industrial complex still has ideas of its own. And more often than makes me comfortable, we find those attempts to impose archaic sex-role stereotyping embedded in the very stuff that forms the core of every happy kid existence: toys.

Now, as my previous rants at the Disney corporation have probably made clear, there are certainly areas in which my girls willingly and happily live up to the stereotype. Princesses? Yup. They looooove their princesses. They love watching them on DVD. They love playing with their trademarked and sparkle magiced Ariels and Belles and Cinderellas. They love dressing up and pretending to be princesses themselves. Which is fine: I've got no issue whatsoever with them exploring that realm of imaginary, interactive play. Y'all want to dress up in frilly pink whatthefuck and call each other fairy princesses and beat each other over the head with your magic wands (not a metaphor)... fine by me.

But. They've also become enraptured with some of their brother's stuff, including the Superman and Batman action figures (coughcoughdollscoughcough) that his uncle gave him for Christmas a couple of years ago. Now, I don't know where they got it from - whether it was second-hand through their friends at daycare or via osmosis through the free-floating cultural zeitgeist - but they've fallen head-over-heels in love with the idea of superheroes. Maybe this is just an extension of their enthusiasm for the magical aspects of fairy princessdom, but they're now just as apt to grab a Nietzschean übermensch and sprint around the house pretending to fly as they are to crown themselves rulers of the realm and walk around issuing orders to their invisible serfs, who tend to be named Tasha, Uniqua, Tyrone et al. And as an extension of this, they're now taking the extra step of incorporating superpowers into their princess play, creating unholy hybrids of Superman and Cinderella who wear glass slippers and ball gowns while they throw their evil stepmothers to the moon.

It's with this in mind that we went to one of the region's many fine shopping arenas last weekend, ostensibly to acquire birthday gifts for a couple of upcoming dates on the preschool party circuit but more accurately to provide our offspring with a first-ever opportunity to experience Toys R Us firsthand and - take a deep breath - choose a toy for themselves. TheWife splintered off with one of the girls to do a little clothes shopping, so I took our son and the other girl into the store with me. We wandered through the aisles together, and as we passed each one I saw their eyes grow more and more glazed with wonder and greed. Puzzles? Basketballs? Bikes? We hit a new aisle, and in a heartbeat my son launched himself at a wall containing the infinite permutations of the Lego universe and seized hold of a fire truck, his grasp like that of a Humboldt squid pulling a hapless lanternfish inevitably towards destiny.

And on we marched. Past great yellow and gold fields of Crayola products. Past pink and sparkling rows of Barbie paraphernalia. Past countless rows of shiny little cars, trucks and airplanes. And then, my daughter stopped dead in her tracks. To the row immediately to our right... superheroes. "Batman," she whispered reverently. 

Batmen, to be accurate. Hundreds of them, in dozens of different sizes and uniforms. Batplanes. Batbikes. Batcopters. And Supermen — their rigid, plasticized muscles frozen in eternal mid-ripple, broad and flawless smiles spread full across their faces. Spider-men. Hulks. And others, whom I did not recognize. As my daughter Rabbit tried to absorb this new pantheon of hero options and possibilities, a thought occurred to me: wouldn't it be cool if I could find a female superhero my girls could play with, prize and emulate right alongside of their more culturally ubiquitous comrades in spandex? Yes, I answered. It would be cool indeed. And so I began furiously scanning the aisle, through row upon row of colorful figures, trying to pull out two - or even just one - woman who could offer my girls the same stimulation, the same inspiration, the same sense of reward that Batman and Superman offered in their hypermasculinized style.

It was a depressing exercise. There was nothing there. Nothing. I looked high and low, back and forth. And it was only when I was about to leave that I spotted - in a distant, high corner, far from the nimble fingers and eager hands of little girls like mine - her. Her name was Big Barda. I'd never heard of her before, but she was definitely a she, and when I offered her to Rabbit she literally jumped for joy. "A girl superhero! A girl superhero!"

And thus burdened with new plastics, we purchased, left the store and met up with the rest of the family at the family truckster. My other daughter Butterfly was desperate to see the new girl superhero - the Disney Princess card game I'd picked up for her was already dropped and forgotten on the car floor - but Rabbit held tight, clutching Big Barda close to her heart.

We returned home, and quick as a shot my daughters raced inside to the kitchen and demanded that I open Big Barda's packaging. Which, being a dutiful serf, I did without hesitation. I handed the figurine back over to the girls, and they ran off — launching a full twenty minutes where they alternated between fighting over her and studying her closely, analyzing her strengths, hypothesizing what adventures she'd enjoy. And then, finally, they brought her back to me.

"Daddy... what's that?" asked Rabbit. I glanced down, and without thinking responded, "That's Big Barda's armor. It's what keeps her safe when bad guys or monsters try to get her." They were unsatisfied. "No, Daddy," said Butterfly, thrusting the figurine into my hands. "What's that?" She pointed. And my eyes focused more clearly on that segment of golden armor, the chest piece.

At which point I realized: it was more than armor. It was a gigantic, hyper-accentuated golden bra. Big Barda was fucking stacked. This toy - the only female superhero toy I could find in the entirety of Toys R US... this thing I'd brought into my house, into my daughters' lives, hoping to provide them with a female figure of strength and character who might motivate them to fantasize in terms beyond that of princess - was purposefully hypersexualized.

I couldn't believe it. I could, but it was such a terrible, cynical thing to believe true — that a company responsible for creating toys for children would choose to say, "Yes, Virginia, there are girl superheroes... but they exist only so that boys can look at them."

But that's not what my daughters needed to hear. "It's magical armor, sweetie." I said. "It's made out of gold and it helps her to be strong."

"As strong as Superman," Butterfly asked. She and her sister looked at me with wide, guileless eyes.

"No," I said. "Stronger."