Because, seriously. The Jezebel Apocalypse (discussed HERE) makes my worrying about my daughter’s possible exposure, someday, somewhere, to a Bratz doll seem the equivalent of worrying about one day getting a hangnail, oh my god.

(What apocalypse? The one where influential young women – ‘feminist role models’ to at least some impressionable girls – get up – or slouch down, drunk – in a public forum and say shit like ‘only stupid girls get raped’ and ‘pulling out is the funnest birth control omg!’ and ‘I was raped once but I like didn’t do anything about it because I had better things to do, like get drunk.’ FOR SERIOUS.)

(Weeping a little bit.)

All I want for my daughter is a world in which she gets to decide, always, when, where and how she takes her leaps, and for her to recognize that that world was – and continues to be – hard-won, and to never, ever take that world for granted. I want her to be a feminist girl in a feminist world, always fighting with and for and because that feminism. I want her to fly, and to know and appreciate that she flies because being a strong, smart woman gives her wings.

And I want her to never forget that those wings can be torn. I want her to never tear them, to never be tempted to tear them.

Because the tearing of those wings? A hideous, terrible, tragic thing. I so want to spare her that. I so want her to grow into the sort of woman who will spare herself that.

That is all.