Why Barbie Was Never Going to Speak to My Child
As the date to see Barbie approached, my thoughts ran wild with possible story lines and costume changes. In anticipation of our cinema girls meetup, I put on a bright pink t-shirt and opened my Barbie doll case from the 60’s. Even when we downsized, I could not find it in my heart to give it away.
Inside, Barbie, Midge and Skipper were dressed to impress. My sister and I played endless imaginary scenes in high-pitched voices, dressing and undressing Barbie and friends.Midge was my favorite. Why? Because she looked like me — a brunette tomboy sporty girl — or at least I anointed her as such. Blonde Barbie was a too glamorous for my taste (too much eyeliner!).
I identified with Midge due to the one thing that I was reminded of every day of my childhood. My mother, two sisters and brother all had a major head of bright red curly hair, while my hair was straight and mousy brown, typically cut pixie style.
When we were out and about, strangers would admire, then cluck at me, “Where did you come from young lady?” If there was a five-year-old version of screw you, I would have said it.
My dad had dark brown hair, but he was never with us shopping or running errands. He was my biological link to the family and proof that I belonged.Even good natured teasing made me feel like the odd kid out.
My own daughters had a different route to Barbie. The oldest was an only child up to the age of eight, and very assured of her place, not just in the family, but in the world. She had our undivided attention all those years and knew she could be anything that she wanted to be.
Her Barbies were purchased with a very specific relatable purpose, i.e. Baseball Barbie for the time she played in a youth softball league, etc. For the most part, Barbies stayed in the box.My youngest daughter, adopted at age seven from Mexico, could not relate to perfection in pink. Plus, she did not look like me or her dad.
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