Why do I feed the beast?

The Dancer is a girl.
Every little cell of her body is female. Every follicle. Every fiber.
We walked into a store yesterday (mistake number one) and the Dancer saw a dress hanging up that caused her gasp and run to it.
It's like a princess, mommy. It's like a princess!
The Dancer thinks that this argument trumps all others. To her the study of economics is based on one concept: If it is like a princess it must be purchased. Fingernail polish and lip gloss and shiny shoes and hair clips and tiaras and dresses - all like a princess.
This is a problem. This is not sustainable. What happens when a white pony is "like a princess" or a pink convertible or a castle in the English countryside or the crown jewels?
I must break this habit now.
I must not feed the beast.
I must be strong and firm and mean.
I must look in those big eyes (that look eerily like a princess) and tell her that the princess obsession must stop. It's silly. It's impracticable. It's a little embarrassing around my friends and sisters who disdain all things girly-girl.
I will put down my big, dream-crushing foot...

tomorrow.

Right now I am watching her do what all little girls do best- spin in a new dress.