I enjoyed fairytales as a child and over the years I’ve had a myriad of views on them. Young submissive girls sitting waiting for their princes to come, passively awaiting rescue…really? Patience has never been my forte, so I couldn’t get this concept at all. To be honest, I never questioned fairytales as a child. I didn’t possess a precocious ability to do a post modernist, feminist critique but I always knew them to be unbelievable fantasy. I mean, the only time I was allowed wear any kind of a fancy dress, never mind flouncy ballgowns, was for mass on Sundays. After the incident with the neighbours go cart which resulted in a big hole in said Sunday best as it got caught in a spoke, the wearing of said best was restricted to mass times only. (That hand made go cart/wagon was the business though and could go at a fair speed).
If truth be told, I also felt that the male heroes were fairly insipid and stupid creatures too…….boring and dull. I didn’t think they’d be any good at bad eggs, knock a dolly or knucks. The boys I knew had an ingenuity, an underlying devilment to them and an ability to seek out both mischief and fun that was never reflected in the fairy tales.
I found the villains much more interesting. ( Yep, couldn’t buy into the waiting for the prince so went looking for the bad boys) The fact that the villains had all the superpowers and magic at their disposal, well that was quite appealing .It was completely unbelievable in my mind that they were undone by weak heros. As for dragons, I just always had a soft spot for them. There was no doubt in my mind that they would breathe fire in the right direction at my request and I would soar in my dreams on the back of them. I could not find a role model in what passed for the heroines. I mean how stupid do you have to be to eat an apple from an old crone. We were well warned about taking sweets from strangers when we were younger, but if some old biddy had tried to offer us an apple and not sweets we would have set her straight fairly pronto, given her, her marching orders and told her to do better next time. No point in bothering us unless you have a bag of fizzle sticks, some fruit salads and black jacks and maybe a Big Time Bar.
There was a brief period where I found Rapunzel relatable as I had long hair down to my bum, and when banished to my bed every night before every other child on the road, I imagined that I would let out my hair and smuggle friends up into the room or better again use my own tresses as an escape route. Given the amount of pain I endured having the hair brushed and plaited very morning, I kind of knew this wasn’t a runner. It did seem though that all the best games seemed to occur after my bedtime. Oh the shame to have children younger than you still out playing on the road having a whale of a time, with the sun still shining.
The fairytale of Snow -White ( absolutely no relation to your wan who poisoned herself on the aforementioned apple…not even distant cousins twice removed) and Red Rose , did appeal to me .This story of two sisters living in the woods who aided and befriended a talking bear was relatable, in so far as I had a sister close in age. His killing of the mean old dwarf was just an incidental to me, as was the required marrying off of the two sisters to the bear who was really, wait for it…… a prince and his equally handsome brother. I was just delighted that they could appreciate a talking bear unlike that ridiculous girl who never realised her luck when a talking frog returned her ball.
And so the years passed. I got to an age (about 13 – Inter Cert year) where yes the idea of a villainous prince or even an handsome pauper( with a bit of get up and go) seemed quite a nice idea. More years passed and I read and studied and realised that the sanitisation of the old fairytales and myths and fables was a load of codswallop with a definite cultural and societal agenda that was not remotely pro girls or women. There may even have been vows spoken over copious amounts of alcohol that no child of mine would have their independent, brave and self sufficiency aspirations insidiously watered down by misogynistic and patriarchal horse tripe.
Even more years passed too bloody quickly and there I was in my own little kingdom of motherhood. Like most neighbouring kingdoms at the time there were sometimes great wars fought but sometimes I, as the benign & wise queen occasionally managed to reign over at least ten minutes of peace & harmony. The adoption of the evil queen persona sometimes granted me 20 minutes. My rule was often in danger of being overthrown, evil forces in the shape of terrible twos, obstinate sixes and fussy eights, threatened the very heart of my little kingdom. But it survived even when a plague of prolonged sibling rivalry threatened the benign queen’s sanity. I bought my children dress up princess costumes, knights costumes, cowboy ones and pirate ones. I read every fairy tale going, sanitised or not and stories from my own favourite book as a child ” Tales the Wind Told”. I discovered for the first time what has since become one of my favourite books ever Roald Dahls’ “Revolting Rhymes.” which if you have never read is worth a library trip for.
My journey through the first ten years of motherhood had me relating to those fairy tale characters somewhat more than I could have anticipated. I could identify with Snow White and actually now believe that she took a bite of that dratted apple just to get some uninterrupted sleep, so tired was she from cleaning up after the seven dwarves who hi hoed it in and out of the house everyday without so much as a by your leave. How I longed for a modern day equivalent of the magic porridge pot..one that didn’t cook porridge but maybe just something the children would eat that was vaguely nutritional..ok.ok..I didn’t care what the nutritional content was once it was ate and could be produced with no thought or effort from me. Not once but often did I feel like the little red hen and as my waistline testifies, ” I too did eat it all all by myself ” in that lovely late o ‘clock silence. My house was inhabited by what seemed like a flock of Goldilocks for too many years to count. “Too hot, too cold, too lumpy, too white, too green, too big, too small,too ticklish, too bright, too dark, too rough”; You name it from food to the fabrics on their bodies, there were days when I couldn’t do right for doing wrong. Every venture forth from our kingdom was like travelling in a scene from Shrek with more than one ‘donkey’ catcalling “Are we there Yet ?” We bought the biggest one a t-shirt!!
The ground hog day of housework..well enough said below.
More years passed, I could now leave the house without having to do a Houdini act. I didn’t have to pump and dump if I had a few beverages. I had a reasonable chance of being allowed to poo in peace..not guaranteed though. Uninterrupted telephone contact with the outside world was and is still off limits though. There were signs that a social life with other grown up people might be becoming available again. Nights out, eating & drinking, chatting, getting dressed up and dancing as badly as ever. Even the odd dancing on the table moment. Happy days indeed and then she struck with a vengeance, my inner Cinderella! I did try do battle but failed. No need for a fairy godmothers’ warning or anything. By 12.00 midnight (shoes would be long off and if they were an inch off the ground I was doing well.) if I wasn’t at least on a promise to be homeward bound I would find myself turning in a tired squiffy and somewhat irate pumpkin just longing for my bed. Motherhood, migraines and middle age had done their job. My Dancing Queen had being officially downgraded to a Sleeping Beauty and no amount of magic potions, alcoholic or otherwise were going to deter me from my pursuit of true happiness….at least eight hours sleep in my own bed and a pair of Birkenstocks!!