One of A's best friends got her a Pipi Longstockings book for a birthday gift last year. Two books, actually, one in English and one in Swiss German. And at first A was too young to understand them, but she's gotten into them lately. She and this friend, L, are like two peas in a pod, and at daycare they will drive the teachers a bit nutty singing the Pipi song. So much so that they wind up relegated to the nap room to sing ad nauseum. I approve of this solution.
I also highly approve of Pipi. She's the strongest girl in the world. Stronger than the strong man at the circus. She can carry her horse on her shoulders. She wears mismatched socks, plays "don't touch the floor" around her kitchen furniture, gets eggs and hot chocolate in her hair when she cooks, and is generally a bad-ass.
And last weekend, when we had to go under the train station to get to the tram, and A had her scooter with her, she didn't ask us for any help with it. She hauled that thing up on her chest, and headed down some steep stairs. As only a proud 3 year old can do. And all she said, pleased as punch, was "I'm strong like Pipi."
My little girl was trying to emulate a female role model by being strong. And liking her own strength. Feeling good about it.
In this underpass, filled with Beyonce's new clothing like for H&M that makes you wonder are they selling clothing too cheaply or selling female sexuality too cheaply (answer: both), my daughter was only concerned with how great it was to be able to carry one's own scooter by oneself.
I love Pipi Longstockings.
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