I have to say that this opinion piece from The Sydney Morning Herald today disturbs me. It’s meant to disturb me, and it taps into several of my fears as a mother to a little daughter.
Shona Snowden asks What do we teach our little girls?
Their cheeks glow with all the health of peach blusher and their lips pout under sticky pink lip gloss.
They are five.
Only two years ago the hips clad in electric-blue hot pants were wrapped in layers of Huggies. The pale little midriffs gleaming beneath tasselled mini-brassieres felt only the softness of pure cotton and terry towelling. At night they still snuggle in cot beds with teddies and bunnies, with a night-light on; some with a reassuring nappy concealed under their pink pyjamas, a secret not shared with Miss and the Big Girls at dancing.
Please read the rest of it. It’s only short.
DD isn’t too keen on going to dance classes and is happy to do preschooler gym activities, more to her liking. But I suspect that sooner or later she’ll be enthusiastic about learning more about dance, maybe when she’s four or five, and I know that I’ll be pulled into that maelstrom called “Dance School”. It’s not the fussing about having a clean leotard and hair pulled back into a bun; it’s the choice of music, the dance moves that are meant for a girl many years older, and the concepts that many teenagers don’t manage well, let alone preschoolers.