I tried to be good dad.
I set out to raise a fiercely independent woman—free of negative-body-image issues and outdated views on gender roles. Someone who quoted bell hooks and Mindy Kaling. A kid who wasn't afraid of strangers, snakes or challenging ideas. She could change a tire, arrange flowers and fix a comma splice.
I read to Hennie every night, and only from smart, culturally evolved storybooks. I never let her taste soda. I gave her educational toys—the kind that are barely entertaining. I never changed the pitch of my voice when I talked to her, even when she was still swaddled. And, above all, I didn't let her watch movies with the bad Disney princesses—the ones who sat brushing their perfect, always-moving hair and waited for a man to solve their problem.
I tried to not raise a princess.
But, I failed.
It happened slowly. At first Hennie pretended to be the Disney villains—banishing her dolls to dungeons and killing their parents. Eventually, she started paying attention to the princesses, but just Merida and Elsa, which I thought was OK. She would shoot imaginary ice from her fingertips to freeze landscapes. Or she would rush up behind me to wrap her little arms around my knees while screaming in her best Scottish brogue, "Give up, bear—you're done for!"
Then, between visits to grandma's house and daycare, Hennie discovered the other princesses—the bad princesses. Once she came home from daycare excited. "Dad! Have you seen Cinderella? She has this dress and these fairies and this dress and—”
I considered Hennie ruined. My wife, the feminist librarian, laughed and told me she was fine. "I only watched those movies and I turned out pretty OK."
Still, I had to let Hennie know that those princesses were flawed.
"Hennie—where do you think Sleeping Beauty went to college?"
"Probably the same place Sofia The First goes."
"What was her major?"
I went on to lecture her about how brains and kindness are more important than looks. Hennie nodded and dutifully listened.
I eavesdropped on a conversation between three-year-old Hennie and her best friend.
Hennie said, "Princesses are lazy and entitled..."
I nodded approvingly.
"...and amazing!"
When Hennie outgrew her toddler swimsuit, we took her to a store and said she could pick any swimsuit she wanted. The racks were lined with neon colors, logos and silky pictures. She rubbed her fingers against all of them and picked a pink one-piece with frilly shoulders and Belle, Cinderella and Aurora plastered across the belly.
I had to intervene.
Right next to the princess swimsuit was a Wonder-Woman suit that included golden laces at the hips and the classic stacked "W" stretched out as wings across the chest. I pulled out my phone and showed Hennie pictures of Lynda Carter and Gal Gadot. We watched bits of the Justice League cartoon where Wonder Woman single handedly fought off entire armies. Hennie smiled and said Wonder Woman really was cool.
“Well, do you like the Wonder-Woman suit?”
She tried to smile, and through almost-tears she said, "I know you really like this one, Dad. Let's get it."
I understand now that the lessons I taught Hennie by bending her into something she wasn't were far worse than anything she might have learned from those horrible Disney movies. The truth is I wanted her to be a tomboy. When we decided on the name "Henrietta," I loved it because I thought I would call her "Hank." I never wished she was a boy—instead, I wanted to raise a badass girl who carried a pocket knife, spat and had a rat's nest for hair. I don't like the macho label, but I'm a bit outdoorsy. I have a utility beard. I like to be on boats. I fly fish and seek out anywhere that has more fauna than people. I wanted a partner who could share in my adventures. I've taken Hennie fishing and when I caught a trout, I said she could hold it. She rushed a single finger over its cold, wiggling body.
Hennie is decidedly indoorsy. She's delicate but not demure. She loves to dance and sing and make up stories. Her favorite musicians are Taylor Swift, Boy Taylor Swift (Ryan Adams), Björk, Beyoncé, and LCD Soundsystem. When she plays with other kids, she always leads the narrative and doles out tasks to everyone regardless of age or gender. She named her stuffed cat "Sofa" and when she grows up she wants to be in a rock band called "The Bristles." She introduces herself to everyone she meets and seeks out kids who are a little sad.
Disney is a powerful force, but so is the will of a five-year-old girl. I'm not sure where Hennie got her traits, but it wasn't her overbearing, pedantic father, nor was it the bad, Bechdel-test-failing princess movies. There are things far more scary than Belle's Stockholm Syndrome or Ariel selling off her lovely voice and magnificent fins to meet a man. It turned out it was me, not Disney, who had discounted everything she already was—her varied interests, quirks, qualities and desires.
My wife and I recently planned out Hennie's Christmas present. I thought I'd build her a fly rod, or maybe get an attachment to my bicycle so she can ride along behind and pedal with me. We went back and forth between what we thought she would like and what we wanted her to like. After hours of consideration, we decided if we scrimped and sacrificed, we could afford a trip to Disneyland. At the checkout screen we spent the extra money for the Princess Brunch.