A Questionable Trousseau

Frankly I’d never had a problem with my youngest daughter’s interest in Barbie, that abnormally long-limbed, well-endowed woman-doll from childhood. Grace loves all things girly and sparkly and with all of those little plastic shoes and restrictive sleeve and pant openings Barbie’s World has to offer, what a great way to work on fine motor skills.

So I haven’t had a problem with Barbie.

Until now.

Earlier in the day little Grace had sweetly called out “Mommy, can you help me with this?” She held Barbie upside down, the doll’s bare rubber legs splayed apart best they could given she has no hip joints. She waved silver leggings in my direction.

“Here you go,” I offered, amazed that even Barbie has to struggle to get into leggings. “Now where’s her top?”

Grace pulled Barbie from my grasp and sang out “No top! Just like this!” She skipped down the hall with Barbie, the doll’s hair flouncing like a shampoo ad while her exposed nipple-less boobs stayed motionless above her disco leggings.

Hmmm.

“Grace, I think Barbie needs a top on,” I gently suggested.

Grace paused to give Barbie the once over and then replied, “No, she likes looking like this.”

Are you kidding me?! She actually likes it? I mean, come on. Who wears disco leggings anymore? Especially with no top on. Especially in Marin.

I mean, really.

But how to communicate the obvious to my impressionable daughter who is eager for defiance, a little edginess, a little half-dressed rebellion now and then…being three years old and all.

My deliberation was interrupted by music warbling from the back of Barbie. The button along her spine had been squeezed inadvertently and a lilting, sugary voice was singing, “I’m just like you, you’re just like me.” My naïve little girl and this slut doll were beaming at one another.

And I had visions! Oh I had visions. Grace at her prom, dancing topless in disco leggings. Medical school sidelined for an internship at Hooters. Many sessions with a head-shaking therapist questioning my severe lack of parental supervision during the life-defining preschool years.

It was all I could do to refrain from grabbing Ho Barbie from my child’s grasp and flinging this pariah into the trash, head first.

Instead I heard myself insist, “Gracie, Barbie’s really cold. She wants a top on.”

Grace resignedly sifted through the shoe box of Barbie clothes and returned with a piece of bright pink cloth. It turned out to be a crop top that ties across the chest, ala Daisy May from Duke’s of Hazard.

Were there no other choices? Sifting through the clothes myself, I realized apparently not.

If Barbie wanted to wear something over her leggings besides her princess gown or ballet tutu, she was left with that pink strip of cloth which by the way, accompanied the cut off thigh-high shorts of her sister doll, Barbie the animal vet.

Why vet Barbie didn’t at least get scrubs to detract from all that tousled hair and heavy eyeliner I don’t understand. She deserves more than Daisy May wear after all those years of vet schooling, for Pete’s sake.

When I was a kid, the girl up the street had a Mom who believed in investing in a good Barbie trousseau. Her Barbies had smart career two-piece luncheon suits, lovely strapless drop-waist prom dresses, all with matching accessories, darling sandals and coveted pumps.

So you see, I now find myself under the bright fluorescent lighting of Target at night on a quest to save Barbie from a bad wardrobe. I’m attempting to turn our slut Barbie into well, My Fair Lady Barbie.

I gaze at a wall of Barbie wear and quickly ascertain that Las Vegas showgirl is the current style. Cropped, glittery and va-va-vavoom. I know fashion is cyclical but this stuff was what we ‘70’s kids would have easily recognized as hooker ware, down to the go-go boots and micro-mini with cutout halter.

Where’s Donna Karan, Chloe, Tori Burch or even Gap when you need help? Barbie’s closet is in need of a serious intervention.

I don’t worry about my little girl trying to live up to Barbie’s ridiculously disproportionate body measurements. I worry that she’ll think hooker garb is cool.
And I want her to value who she is too much to allow that to happen so I high tail it for home.

If Barbie can’t have the flattering wardrobe she and all women deserve, especially when leading interesting discussions with Ken and Malibu Barbie or performing aneurism surgery in smart scrubs, I’m going to at least find a grandma who can crochet a few sensible Barbie muumuus for us.