I never owned a Barbie Doll as a little girl.
Not one.
I did have a Rub-a-Dub-Dub Doll which I absolutely adored.
Her head and legs fell off one day. I might’ve ripped them from her torso. I’m still unsure.
My parents paid heart to my love for my treasured doll and so after she was ‘injured’ they took her to a doll hospital.
I don’t remember much about the doll hospital but it was in the 1970’s and the health system wasn’t as strained as it is these days, so there was provision for it.
Bath Doll (I will name her this in lieu of her given name which I’ve sadly forgotten) was admitted to hospital and returned to me with limbs and head securely attached again.
I remember missing her greatly whilst she was there.
I might need to sit down with my mother and discuss the ‘dolly goes to hospital’ story, though in the meantime we’ll let the story stand.
Perhaps she was replaced with a new doll?
No.
Doll hospitals existed.
Since having my own children, I have erected certain proverbial walls for the consideration of appropriate toys.
My sons have never had toy guns (those ones which look remotely real) though they have had space guns which shoot out ping pong balls or frightful foam coated spear heads. See, not dangerous at all.
Because I grew up without a Barbie Doll and seemed to survive better than OK, I considered that my daughter would probably do well to not have one either.
Somehow, over the short yet bustling four years of her life so far, Barbie Dolls have found a place within her toy collection and bedroom.
It did start with me.
I obtained a ‘Spiderman’s Bride’ Barbie Doll and I don’t recall who gave it to me but it was perfectly packaged and unopened.
I accepted the doll into my home because I love Spiderman.
I also thought it would make a fabulous collectors item for the future.
Whilst packing up the contents of our house for a move, I found the box containing certain keepsakes and the Barbie Doll (oh, there was another one in there too though she was a Malibu Barbie with a long rider board beside her) and my daughter happened to be standing beside me as I was burrowing through the contents of the box.
“BARBIE !!! MUMMY CAN I HAVE HER? CAN I? CAN I?”
“AND THIS ONE?”
Of course, she flashed those beautiful big brown eyes and fluttered her dream weaving eye lashes and within less than two minutes, Barbie was within her grasp.
And so the Barbie Doll gate opened.
Gifts from here and there over the years have included more Barbie Dolls, Barbie clothes and hair accessories.
I haven’t succumbed to supplying her with a Barbie Camper Van yet, though to be honest it should’ve been the first thing I let through the gate.
My cousin had a Barbie Camper Van when we were children and I loved playing with that.
I usually made mine out of empty shoe boxes (not because we were financially challenged, mostly because I had a great imagination).
Still, it’s hard to beat a candy pink van with flip out entrance steps and an annex.
Recently, my daughter and son (the two youngest with thirteen devilish twin-like months between them) were playing in her bedroom and in hindsight, I probably should’ve checked in on them five minutes before she came running out to show me her brown skinned Barbie, sans long hair.
Mummy, her hair was too long.
That was just before she also carried out the hands of a paler skinned Barbie and placed them on the table in front of me, hanging loose beside my Saturday night cocktail.
These fell off too.
It didn’t for a moment enter into my mind that I may have a sadistic pair of children.
OK maybe for a second.
It did however make the edges of my mouth turn up with amusement.
Of course, I hid that smile well.
Ah, the second haircut.
How cute.
The first haircut was given by the ruckman of ‘team twin-like’.
He cut her hair.
She was probably around two years of age and her hair had grown into a gorgeous little sandy blonde shoulder length bob of curls and long side fringe.
He trimmed her fringe to above her ears and tried to restructure the back too, but it was sadly uneven.
We were playing hairdresser Mummy. I asked him to cut my hair.
A real hairdresser did her best to mould the design into something more presentable.
On Saturday night, tanned Barbie went from long and luscious locks, to a hip and happening blunt cut rock star.
Pale Barbie suffered a less graceful change and lost two hands.
Yesterday, I conducted (another) toy cull and I was pleased to see my daughter pick up the hand (icapped) doll and suggest she might need to go in the bin.
And this one has drawing all over her face too mummy.
Chuck her in the bin.
I admire and nurture their artistic ways though I am quick to sit them down and have a gentle chat about respect and destruction.
We keep the sharp scissors out of sight though the children’s ‘safety’ scissors still sit within the art supply container.
The true art has been that they have managed to hack through nylon hair AND a set of plastic wrists with what one would describe as a blunt pair of scissors.
Perhaps, Barbie and her relatives are making their own tragic exit from our home.
One by one.
Nobody’s perfect right?
motherstuff 