I can just see it now: My child with pale, white skin; bright-red lipstick; and a tight miniskirt. Prancing on a stage. Brazenly showing her breasts. *help me*
This morning, Ava came into the bathroom while I was getting ready and announced that she was going to play some music. Then she skipped blithely into her closet and came out gripping her hot-pink, electric Barbie guitar that “Santa” (a.k.a., her Grandpa Chuck) brought her for Christmas. She asked for help putting on the earpiece microphone that plugs into the guitar. Then she proceeded to sing along to her very favorite song, which this infernally annoying guitar can “play” over and over again.
Do you see where I’m going with this? Does the title of this post give you any clues about what her favorite song might be?
My sweet little preschooler spent the next several minutes mumble-singing the words to Christina Aguilera’s “What a Girl Wants,” while she breathed heavily into the reverbing mouthpiece. At one point, I heard her say, “Mooommm. *crackle* *twaaaang* Mooommm. *Loud heavy breathing* I love you, Mooommm.” She sounded like some surreal version of these ubiquitous, oversexualized, teenage pop sensations.
Hysterical–and yet my worst nightmare. I would never let her listen to music like that, but I’ve let her keep the Barbie guitar. And she knows every word to that damn song.
When she was first born, I vowed to protect her from Barbie products, media influences, and All Things Disney. And now? She has a Barbie guitar–and sweet, dear Mark has introduced her to both “Cars” and “Monsters, Inc.” Thanks, honey!
Last night, I read Ava some poems by Emily Dickinson before bed. Now, though, I think I’ll need a much stronger superhero. How can an eccentric and reclusive 19th-century poet ever win out against the likes of the sinister and slutty Christina Aguilera?