Savannah's Weblog

American Girl dolls are all the rage in our area. Although they’re expensive, they are the wholesome antithesis of Barbie, correctly proportioned, fully clothed, and age appropriate. Every doll comes with a back story. Julie is from San Francisco in the 70’s. Kit grew up in the Great Depression to become a journalist. All of that appeals to the story tellers in both me and Savannah.

I refused to buy her one a year ago, so she saved her birthday/Christmas/grandma money to buy one herself. (In the last year, she has also bought Ruthie.) She has saved for a few of the accessories also. But when our neighbor invited Savannah to her American Girl sleepover birthday party, I was happy to buy pink polka dot pajamas, for her and the doll! Wondering about the precedent I was setting, the girl in me was tickled for her. It would be here in plenty of time for the sleepover.

She wore the pjs for three nights before she got a black stain on the bodice, actually that’s not bad on a kid’s timeline. It didn’t come out in the wash. The dry cleaners could have it ready on the day of the sleepover! We went together to pick them up, only to find the one button had broken in the cleaning process and two had fallen off! The cleaner’s supplied six new buttons. I’d have to replace them, and this couldn’t have happened on a busier Saturday! I noticed the new buttons were shaped slightly different than the three remaining but figured Savannah wouldn’t notice. On the way back to the car, she said “You are gonna replace them all, right?” I asked why? She said, “Because the new buttons are different.” It was more work for me, but I was happy she noticed.

While we were out, she remembered that she’d never gotten the birthday magazine I’d promised from Safeway. And there was Safeway right next to the cleaners. On our detour she held up a girl’s magazine, with girls on the cover just a bit older. (I remember always aspiring to be the girls two and three years older than I was.) I scanned the headlines for dating and kissing, but it had phrases like “Cliques, good or bad?” and How to have the best sleepover ever…. I approved it. Then Spongebob caught her eye. I watched her looking between a girl/growing up magazine and a funny cartoon. Hmm, growing up or staying young. I made it clear it was her choice but asked which magazine would she get the most use out of. She chose Spongebob. When I asked why, she said, “Because it has comics.” :-) Even my mother loves Spongebob.

Savannah knows she’s pretty. It’s nothing she’s said out loud. But I can see it in the way she presents herself. This school year she’s been brushing her teeth and hair every morning without being told. She just started wearing perfume. Although Daddy and I had to teach her how little she really needs.

I’ve told her she looks pretty, which is not quite the same as saying “You’re pretty.” It’s a hard thing for me to say to her. I need to be level headed for her, not too vain. I’ve found it easier to tell Arwen she’s adorable, but at 4 1/2 she is still hanging on to her babyhood with her round face and dimpled knuckles. In the long run, I don’t think it’s best for either of them to hear it too much.

I’m looking for the balance on that fine line of passing on confidence or vanity. I was raised with a “Pretty is as pretty does” mentality. And her example of pretty comes from my behavior more than my words, no? I was never told I was pretty. The single mother who raised me, the woman who cut bad sycamore limbs with a chain saw, chopped fire wood and poisoned wasp nests even though she was near hysterically afraid of them, well, she wanted me to go into science. She liked hearing me play Fur Elise or Floyd Cramer’s Last Date on the piano. You can’t put looks in a cash register, my dad liked to say. Their generation, and mine too I think, didn’t have the audience that this new one has. Pretty was something we were just supposed to know, our ranking in the world’s gauge of who’s handsome and who’s not.

What if I’d had a mother who tried building my confidence with compliments? Would I have been more assertive in junior high? happier? What if it had gone to my head? What if it had ruined me?

Now I’m a fairly secure person. I like my green eyes and ski-slope nose and I’ve even grown to like my natural hair color. But when I hear someone say that so and so (insert celebrity name here) is beautiful, my next, most natural thought is, “What do you think of me?” With a beauty compliment dropped, there is an invisible notion left hanging, the notion of ugliness. So I find it no easier in saying “She’s beautiful.” than “She’s ugly.” However, if we’re going to hear we’re beautiful, it should be from someone who knows us.

I’m still figuring out the gender difference, but I’ve had no problem telling Seth he’s handsome.