Is it just me or are nonfiction books of this type getting shorter and ending in an increasingly abrupt manner? I was startled when I hit the end of this most recent offering from Ms. Orenstein; with a good pinch of pages left I thought I had just reached the end of a chapter, only to see the rest of the bulk consisted merely of acknowledgements, notes, and so forth.
This sudden drop off only adds to my list of frustrations with this interesting, well-intentioned, yet flawed book. As the mother of three young daughters, I was at once intrigued and skeptical when I picked up the book, which claims to tell us poor befuddled mothers what to make of the supposedly new culture of "girlie girl." The author immediately strikes a very bloggy, up-to-the-minute tone, which can be fun to read but also frustratingly limited. It is odd to pick up an actual physical book and see snarky snappiness and reference after reference to things I have seen online, but have never encountered in real life. Is there truly no world outside the internet now?
It also has the downfall so common to these social critique tomes, in that the author employs what I like to call the "me and my playgroup" method of research. Rather than delving into true social scientific research even in a casual way, rather than expanding her explorations into unfamiliar neighborhoods or more solidly limiting the terms of the inquiry to well-heeled coastal progressive communities, the author lazily lopes around the park on the corner and runs back to report what she has seen there. A lot of assumptions fill in the gap. For instance, she says that since the "princess thing" is so big "even" where she lives (liberal Berkeley) it "must" be even worse elsewhere. Well no, not necessarily. And as far as any kind of material spoiling and expectations of things like "spa day," well, if you can't even afford a once-a-year "spa day" for yourself (as the millions of Americans who make less than $40,000 per year mostly cannot) then you certainly aren't going to be getting one for your 7 year old, whether you think it's immoral or not!
Orenstein gallops along at quite a clip with the false dichotomies, too. Should we encourage girls to play act being a doctor, or just let them be ballerinas? Uh, why not both? Am I damaging my daughter by letting her play with Thomas the Train toys or is it more damaging to let her play princess? Well, why should either one be damaging at all, and especially if one has the breadth of mind to enjoy both?
In Orenstein's anecdotal evidence about the excesses of "girlie girl" I did notice one common theme that carried through: she wasn't there when it happened. In one instance, her daughter had wandered off with some older kids. In most of the rest, it concerned something that happened at preschool. Over and over again with the stuff she cites I found myself thinking, "WHERE are the parents of all these kids?" So much could be remedied by parents being there and saying no as frequently as possible. Dare I say, this woman is making an excellent argument in favor of strong women staying at home to rear and shelter their daughters? Oh heavens, that cannot be! But at least if she proposed this she would be proposing SOME solution. As the book slumped forward, prematurely expired, I had already been feeling depressed and hopeless about the state of girlhood. Orenstein leaves us there with no ideas for remedy at all, save a bland last-minute exhortation that maybe moms can sorta make a difference, I guess, if we try. Woo!
