A few days ago, I picked a Cinderella book at a discount table at a local bookstore. I was looking for a non-Disney Cinderella. (I’m not a huge fan of Disney aesthetic, and I don’t like the idea of the Disney cartoon as the definitive version of the classic tale.)
I picked up the version by Max Eilenberg illustrated by Niamh Sharkey. Illustrations, though whimsical, were maybe a little uninspired — I dunno, something was missing — but I liked it enough to buy without reading.
Nowhere in the book was it mentioned that Cinderella had unusually small feet. Her shoes simply didn’t fit other women, one of whom had feet smaller then Cinderella. I told my mom and she laughed: “American women have large feet!”
I wear American 8-8 1/2, which is about average, but in Russia where I grew up they were considered large. My sister who is about my height wears 6 1/2-7. So I wasn’t exactly proud of my feet. Yet I somehow survived and managed to get a graduate degree.
If we can’t trust our daughters to get over the fact that they don’t have the smallest feet, what can we trust them with?