As a mother of two daughters—each of whom is unmistakably her own person and, unmistakably, a girl—I have engaged in many conversations about the hows and whys. About the inevitable nature vs. nurture question that comes when each of us finds ourselves with a baby in our arms. New. Untouched. Impossibly vulnerable and sponging up everything around him/her. How do we know why our children are the way they are? How can we isolate their characters from the outside influences, the mood fluctuations of a household, the siblings, the birth order? How do we do just enough to guide our children while at the same time encouraging their uniquely individual selves?

I haven’t been looking for an answer so much as a way to understand what makes each of my children tick. A way to be vigilant, aware, involved in who they are and who they are becoming. A way to be conscious of how they are influenced and—perhaps most important—why. And, the questions that often ring loudest? How can I best be a mother to my daughters, knowing firsthand the unique challenges of growing up female? And—although perhaps a subject for another post, another review—how can I raise a son who is a feminist, a compassionate brother, a stalwart believer in the value of a female voice, view, experience?

So when I was offered a review copy of Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter, I didn’t hesitate. I was familiar with Orenstein’s work on the vaguest of realms, perhaps by name recognition alone. But all it took was a quick Google search for me to connect her name with The New York TImes Magazine—one of the few luxuries I have not completely let go of since entering this parenting game—and with her other books, which I admittedly did not read but that I remember thinking at the time of their releases, “Oh, I’d like to read that!” In Schoolgirls (1995) and Flux (2001) as well as in many articles for numerous publications in addition to the Times, Orenstein has made a place for herself when it comes to researching and writing about the experience of growing up female in our modern day world.

Now, it’s been weeks since I finished reading Cinderella. And I keep coming back to the fact that it was a quick read (at times I sat on my bed turning page after page while my children wrestled each other at my feet), but that it has been difficult for me to digest. Orenstein doesn’t offer answers. I wasn’t left with an A-ha moment—a way to ensure that I can introduce, and control, just the right influences into my daughters’ lives. But Orenstein offers page after page of eye-widening statistics and observations—some of which I can’t believe I never noticed myself. As she assures her readers, I will never again look at the Disney princesses without noticing the fact that they are always—always—looking in different directions from one another. I came away from the book thinking and thinking about those Disney princesses, Miley Cyrus, the color pink (as anyone who knows me even peripherally knows is my own favorite color), and the culture of little girl beauty pageants.

Approaching the book project as the journalist that she is, Orenstein made her way down to the ground floor. She talked to Disney executives about the princess culture. She attended the beauty pageants and talked to the organizers, the parents, the girls. She watched the Disney Channel programming and attended a Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana concert. She talked to child-behavior specialists. She observed. She discovered. And in writing it all down, she shares these observations and discoveries. For me, what makes the book easy—and a bit frustrating at times—to read was that Orenstein distills her findings through the eyes of a mother. Orenstein has a young daughter. At times the light-hearted tone of Orenstein’s writing reminded me of a conversation I might have at pre-school pick up time. Lots of questions. Few answers. A sort of, “Yeah, me too” exchange. I envisioned a near shrug as we moms went about our days, trying to do the best we can. And it was these moments in her writing that made me frustrated. Her tone of wanting to know but not quite getting to the bottom of things is disappointing because it fails to reinforce the seriousness of the subject of her book: the absolute vulnerability of our daughters and the ubiquitous marketing campaigns that feel to me as if so many girls are being preyed upon.

However, in the same way, Orenstein is able to connect with her readers, mentioning her wishes and dreams for her own daughter, wishes and dreams that I have for my two girls. As mothers, we try to establish a strong, independent girlhood so that our daughters grow to become strong, independent women. Women who are comfortable with their choices and in their bodies. We hope that they can accomplish all of this without being objectified or misunderstood or underestimated along the way.

This is no small feat. And perhaps I was hoping for too much from one book. The bottom line is that reading Orenstein’s Cinderella has resulted in me thinking more about the pink that splashes from my daughters’ clothing and toys. And although I consider myself to be fairly aware of the cultural and mass-marketing influences that pervade our every days, I am glad to have taken the time to pause and at times be aghast at the realities of pink and the greater princess culture. I recommended this book not because it offers answers but because it increased my awareness—an awareness that, honestly, I didn’t think needed increasing—and that’s a good place to start. 

Full disclosure: I received a review copy of Cinderella Ate my Daughter from the publisher.

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Originally published in March 2011