My two-year-old daughter interrupts me from my keening at the computer to say, "Please read me a book." She has selected Rotten Island by William Steig. We have tried reading it before, but it was a little complex for her and she lost interest. This time, she sits, riveted by all those colorful monsters.
I’m one of those notorious PKs. You know how we are. My teen years were one long stretch of baking apple turnovers, babysitting at Revelation seminars, cross-stitching gifts for grandmas and aunts, and reading James Herriot. What gives? One could argue that I was too dorky to rebel, but this hypothesis only works for so long. Eventually, I grew up. I traveled. I studied.
Stitched across the front of the onesie was the slogan: Daddy’s Little Feminist. “Okay, that’s pretty awesome,” my husband said. We were about to have a baby girl, and we had been inundated with pink, pink, pink, and with princesses. Here was the antidote, available in sensible black or white. We didn’t buy it—we had too many onesies already—but the phrase resonated.