Some weeks ago, I typed up a few rules for my daughter, Josephine, which I then posted on the refrigerator:
1. You are not to dress in revealing clothing or consort with girls who do.
2. You are not to have contact with young men who have not been introduced to—and/or frisked by—your mother or father.
3. You are not to use drugs other than Tylenol, and only then for approved medical purposes.
4. You are not to dance in a lewd manner, particularly in a nightclub with paparazzi present.
My friend Eve read over this list and pointed out that Josephine is not quite a year old. I’m well aware of my daughter’s age, of course. But I’m also well aware of Madison Avenue’s efforts to market the slut image to an ever younger demographic, and the mass media’s decision to cover young, troubled party girls as if they were heads of state, and perhaps most terrifying of all, I’m aware of my own weakness for precisely this sort of depraved coverage.
It’s a lot to consider.
And frankly, it’s not stuff I thought I’d ever have to consider. Just 18 months ago, I was your average bachelor dude, bumbling into my late thirties with a girlfriend stashed across the country. As such, I spent a lot of time strolling down less-than-wholesome cultural avenues. To be specific, I wasted approximately a week and a half (if you add up all the 20-minute segments) trolling the Internet for a free version of the Paris Hilton sex video. My friend Karl had told me it was hilarious, that she actually answers her cell phone in the midst of the action. Then there was the Britney saga. And the Lindsay saga. And whatever stray cleavage those might offer.
But in 2006, a number of things happened very quickly. I realized I was turning 40. My girlfriend announced that she would be staying across the country if I didn’t propose to her. I proposed to her. A week later, she called to say she was pregnant. In the space of six months, we eloped, bought a house, moved in together, and welcomed the arrival of Josephine.
What did this radical paradigm shift mean for me? It meant that I began visiting the mall. The mall is a terrifying place for a new dad, because it offers a concentrated dose of all the cultural messages aimed at your daughter. It was at the mall that I first encountered a pair of moppets playing with a Bratz doll.
How cute, I thought. Until I saw the doll’s ensemble: a miniskirt and a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase
So Many Boys, So Little Time. Next, I passed by Club Libby Lu, where prepubescent clients get makeovers and learn a sexy dance while a soundtrack offers helpful tips such as “Wet your lips and smile to the camera.” Then the girls select miniature stuffed dogs to carry around in a faux-couture carrier, just like, well, you know who.
The adult stores were no better. Victoria’s Secret had a section for young women that featured bras and panties small enough to fit a sizable toddler. Yes, it’s Baby’s First Thong.
Some weeks ago, I typed up a few rules for my daughter, Josephine, which I then posted on the refrigerator:
