Tonight, at the dinner table, Hayely and I were talking about school. I told her how excited I am for her that she starts school in just a few more weeks (and that’s true – *I* am not excited but I’m excited for her because she’s been wanting to go for over a year now). She said she was excited too.

Then I told her that besides getting her uniform and maybe some new shoes (she has perfectly good running shoes but if we get her a skirt or tunic, she’ll need some little Mary Jane style shoes), we have to get her a backpack (red, naturally, as it’s her favorite color), some supplies as per the list, and we’d have to get her an appointment to get her hair cut. Although I did a great job cutting her hair last time, I think she might enjoy the whole experience of getting it washed and conditioned and cut and frou-froued at a professional salon.

She said, “Oh no, no, no. I don’t want my hair cut.” When I told her she had to (mostly because I’ll be damned if I’m going to fight with her hair at 7 am every frickin’ day), she then went the opposite route and told me she wanted it cut like a girl on her soccer team who has a very short, pixie-ish cut. I told her if she really wanted to she could, but that once it’s cut you can’t change your mind. Then we said maybe we’d get it cut like one of her friends who has an adorable chin-length bob – short enough to be manageable but long enough for her to do stuff with it.

Out of the blue she then told me, “Maybe I’ll never cut it again. I’ll let it grow and grow and grow. Then you’ll have to stop calling me Hayley and call me Rapunzel instead.”

I laughed and said, “Good one! Wait. Rapunzel. How did you know about her?”

She said, “I just know! She had long, long hair.”

I asked her, “Did I tell you that story? I didn’t think I had.”

AND THEN she said, “No Mommy, I saw it on TV.”

Good God. I am a failure as a mother. Rather than having it read to her, she learned about Rapunzel on TV. Probably on Dora or something. Gah.

So I told her the full story in between bites of my spaghetti and she was very interested and thought it was hilarious that the Prince climbed up her hair to rescue her.

Then she got quiet and asked, “Mommy? How did they get out if he went up the tower?”

I said, “I’m not sure, I guess he helped her climb back down her long hair.”

And she looked puzzled and asked, “Well then why didn’t she just climb down herself instead?”

So maybe I’m not a failure! Because clearly I am raising a feminist who doesn’t need any stinkin’ Prince to rescue her resourceful self from the tower!