Saturday, June 27, 2009

Oh for simpler, pinker times

When I was in college and taking all those Women's Studies classes I swore that I would never let my daughters play with Barbie. Barbie was an unrealistic modicum of beauty: tall, stacked and blond. She also lived in a dream house and drove a pink Corvette. I would not support her superficial, materialistic lifestyle because of the damage that it would surely inflict upon my future little daughters' future little psyches.

The fact that from the ages of about four to eleven, I myself spent an average of 7.8 hours daily as interior decorator, life coach and marriage counselor to Barbie - and turned out perfectly at peace with my short, flat-chested, brunette, duplex residing, old Chevette driving self - would not dissuade me from my convictions.

Barbie was evil. My professors had said so.

Then I actually had daughters. And alas, the Barbie boycott went the way of the licensed character boycott, among others. So, so many others.

There is one boycott I adhere to, come hell or high whining: In the Naptime household, we do not do Bratz.

Don't know who Bratz are?

Bratz are Barbie's Jersey relatives - on Ken's side, of course. The ones who, whenever they are in town, it always happens to fall on a weekend when, oh my goodness, Barbie is just so so busy, Barbie is booked solid for the entire weekend from Friday night straight through Sunday night, oh it is such a shame that Barbie and family can't see them! Oh, durn durn durn!

The truth is that Barbie does not want the Bratz anywhere near Skipper because, oh her skull, those girls dress like, well, like girls with reputations. If you know what she means. And I think you do.

Even though Barbie has sent them all giftcards to Ann Taylor on every single birthday, Christmas and graduation for years now, it hasn't done even one bit of good.

So, as one who was virtually raised by Barbie: if the Bratz girls aren't good enough for Skipper, why, they aren't good enough for Eva Rose and Maggie either.

Eva Rose has accepted this as a fact of life with me as her momma. Until yesterday. When she questioned me.

Oh, I do so hate it when they question me.

Eva Rose: Why don't we do Bratz, Mom?
Me: Because I don't like the way they dress.
Eva Rose: But why?
Me: Because they do not dress modestly.
Eva Rose: I don't even know what you meeeeeean.
Me: They show too much of their bodies, Sissy. The way that they dress does not glorify God.
Eva Rose: pause, then softly: But Mommy. They are so. fashionable.

My mind flitted back and forth between wondering how did she come to believe that dressing like a streetwalker is fashionable? to wondering how she does a four year old even know the word fashionable? to being rather proud that my four year old knows the word fashionable.

So much brain flitting precluded language. I just stared at her and blinked.

And envied my mother, who only had to worry about big boobs and pink Corvettes corrupting her daughter. Which, you know, might not be so bad after all.


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