Violet Affleck, Where Art Thou?

Lately I have become increasingly aware of a disturbing trend.  It isn’t so much a trend as an epidemic; a pandemic of epic proportions.  Well, at least it seems that way to me—the mother of a little boy.  The problem?

Girls.

They are hand-grabbing, close talking vixens.  They demand his attention by walking right up in front of him and forcing themselves into the path of his gaze.  They will not be ignored.  They are miniature Glenn Closes-in-training.  I need to keep a better eye on Benjamin’s plush bunny lest we find it in a pink Easy Bake Oven.

Part of the problem lies with the Walt Disney Company and all that damn princess nonsense.  Little girls are being fed a daily dose of “you’re Daddy’s little princess” and they are going out into the world believing it.  Just because you have a tiara from the Disney Store doesn’t mean you’re Belle, honey! 

I see little girls strutting around all the time in glitteriffic pink and purple tees boasting PRETTY PRINCESS.  Huh?  You aren’t much of a princess if you have a snotty nose, felt tip marker on your face and crayon wax beneath your fingernails.  And those nails…tell your mom to swab a little polish remover on them.  Your Hannah Montanna Pink Sparkle nail polish began chipping off last week, yet here you are again…showing up at Story Time donning that same gnarly lacquer.

And you expect to hold my son’s hand?

Not to mention the lead content in all that costume jewelry—each little bedazzled beauty is like a walking carcinogen.  What kind of mother would I be if I allowed my son to cavort with such painted ladies? 

Oh and did I mention the squealing?  Like modern day sirens, girls age three to thirteen have been known to emit screeching calls when in the presence of Benjamin.  Eighty percent of the time he recoils in horror and the other twenty, he just freezes.  Last month we took him to an open house for Fire Prevention Week.  He was wearing his full turnout gear—and looked adorable.  Well, within seconds a female Junior Firefighter (a teenager!) grabbed him and demanded to take a picture of him.  For all I know my four-year-old son is emblazoned on some teenage harpy’s MySpace page.

I hope this nonsense ends before Benjamin is old enough to date.  We keep telling him that we’d prefer he find a nice girl like Violet Affleck.  She isn’t a creepy living doll like that poor little Suri Cruise.  She enjoys the library and the Farmer’s Market and she doesn’t appear to have a princess complex.  So, Ben and Jennifer, if you’re reading this…give us a call. 

Yikes!  I am going to go check on Benjamin’s plush rabbit.  I think I smell polyester fiberfill.  I knew he shouldn’t have scorned that little girl with the faux pearls and sequined hoodie!