Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not a neo-feminazi about to curse out
Barbie and all her minions for having the waist-size-to-boob ratio of a
Narrow-Waisted Predatory Wasp or for giving 10-year olds anorexia or causing them to become too clueless to vote. No, this is All About Me.
I
never had a Barbie. Correction: I had A. Barbie. One
lousy stinking Barbie with mouse-brown hair. And I'd page through
the tiny catalogs that showed the Entire Barbie Universe and her
gorgeous wardrobe collection and sigh over the knee-high go-go boots
and the leather vest with the long fringe that completed the Barbie
Retro Sixties outfit, or the Sparkly Diaphanous Ball Gowns, and roll my
eyes heavenward and say a silent prayer. That always went
unanswered. And my one singular mouse-brown Barbie with the
homemade outfits cleverly crafted from Kleenex were simply not good
enough to join the ranks of the multi-Barbie-owning neighborhood girls.
In other words? I could have been popular, IF I had owned multiple Barbies. Duh.
So
when I had a daughter, I peppered her with Barbies. They became
self-populating: tiny plastic asexual beings continually reproducing
through the tangle of their knee-length blonde hair. Every
birthday party she was invited to was a Barbie occasion. For her
own birthdays, she typically received several. She had an older
relative who doted on her and who knit and sewed tiny bustiers and
crocheted capes and odd little hats, so my daughter's Barbies had a
change of wardrobe available at all times.
It was Too Much. Even I could see that.
So
when my younger daughter was born, I intentionally hid the fact that
such a thing as Barbie even existed. Barbie would not sully this
girl''s existence! I sewed Waldorf dolls for her, stuffed with
organic wool. I knitted animals for her. We played with
wooden blocks and homemade beanbags. It was gentle, soothing.
Toys 'R Us? Haven't been there in years.
It was great, but....bo-ring. She wanted more, but didn't know what.
Part of my older daughter's discarded Barbie stash was
discovered the other day by her little sister. My 7-year-old daughter brought me a naked
one-legged Barbie and asked about glue sticks for repairs. I
blithely and
expertly snapped her leg into place and asked if she had any clothes,
and was brought vinyl cowgirl pants and a fringed cowgirl shirt, two
sizes too small. My daughter said the boots that came with it
were red, and that she really liked them. I gave Barbie's knee-length
blonde
hair one final pat and told her to have fun.
