The Barbie Complex

I have very few rules when it comes to parenting.

This isn’t to say I don’t care about certain things like getting my kids a good night’s sleep or making sure they have a sense of humor. My husband and I have made a few choices, like no soda or running with scissors, but in general, we tend to play it fast and loose with the rules.

This is mostly because we are tired.

The promises I made myself—like breastfeeding, cloth diapering and organic baby food making—fell away for reasons of either sustainability or sanity. But those were choices I made. Rules of parenting I allowed myself to bend often, or dissolve entirely.

Otherwise, most everything else about parenting has been a little ad hoc. Jim and I want our daughters to be independent, kind and curious creatures who will view the world as a good place. Now, we can be pretty strict about certain things—manners, backtalk, and whining. That might be more about our low tolerance for such behavior over our desire to raise decent humans, but it should all produce the same result. Mostly, we are just trying to keep them alive and feeling loved. And those are large tasks in which rules would only gum up the works.

Except for one rule. The only rule I’ve ever had that I knew I would never break: No Barbies.

For a million reasons that are quite obvious, I made a rule around the time I was 15 years of age that no child of mine would ever own a Barbie. And no skirting around the rules either with a knock-off brand or one of those Bratz dolls.

I’ve never thought this was a ridiculous rule. It was a rule that was grounded in the need for any child of mine to have a healthy image of what women look like. For her or him to understand that women very rarely have eyes that are bigger than their breasts, or thighs that are wider than their waists. And that most women can bend their arms and knees to accommodate tasks like hard-hitting journalism and rocket science.

But then, what was I worried about? Any child of mine would be so engaged in gender neutral toys like Legos and Lincoln Logs that, more than likely, the issue would never come up. My child would never be the child who would cry and beg for a Barbie in the middle of a store. Nope, my child would always sit quietly in the cart going over the state capitals while I shopped for organic rhubarb and canning equipment.

So, four years and two daughters into parenthood, I’m proud to say that I have never once bent or dissolved this rule.

Even that time, six months back, after Lowery had a sleepover with my sister, and my niece’s Brave Barbie doll—a Disney character who boasts female empowerment through archery and lax hair care—ended up in my daughter’s overnight bag. That night, while my daughter slept, I took the big-eyed, big-breasted doll out of her bag and hid it safely behind the washing machine.

My husband supported this rule. He didn’t think it was over-the-top or unnecessary. He certainly didn’t want a bunch of naked plastic dolls hanging out in the Lego fort.

But then, two weekends ago, my whole parenting framework fell apart. Because of one ruthless and vicious infiltrator.

Better known to some as “Nana.”

My mother had asked to have both Lowery and my niece Payton up for a few nights. She had so much planned, like taking them swimming, watching movies, and visiting all the barnyard animals around their property.

But never once did she mention she might take them to the store and let them pick out a toy.

And so, when my daughter was dropped off—after a fun-filled weekend with her grandparents—she came running toward my open arms carrying none other than, a Barbie.

Stripper Barbie.

Complete with a skintight leather dress and glittery shoes that reeked of daddy issues.

When my eyes lifted from the doll to meet my mother’s gaze, I saw panic wash over her.

“Oh…” she said, looking down. “I forgot about your Barbie rule.”

I could tell her forgetfulness was genuine. As was her remorse. But there I stood, on the porch with my daughter and her new favorite toy. And I didn’t have a clue what to do.

“She was crying and begging for it in the store,” my mom volleyed. “What was I to do?”

“We don’t have Barbies in this house,” I said, to both of them.

My daughter, with her big saucer eyes and bouncy white curls, looked up at me with a quiver in her chin. “B-b-but, I LOVE her!” And with that pronouncement, she burst into tears, ran into the house and up to her room to play with her doll and the stack of tiny one-dollar bills it came with.

My husband, out of town on business, had to hear of this over the phone.

“What am I supposed to do, Jim!? She won’t let go of the doll for a second!”

“Well,” he said, treading lightly, “what is the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, I dunno Jim, maybe she’ll grow up thinking women stand on their tip toes?”

We ended the phone call agreeing that I would try to relax a bit, and that when he returned a few days later, we would strategize an intervention.

For the next two days Lowery went everywhere with the tiny doll she had affectionately named “Barb.” Lowery sat Barb on the table during dinner. She took her in the bath, careful not to get Barb’s long, blonde, unobtainable hair wet. She took Barb to bed at night. And she took her to school in the mornings.

Each night on the phone to Jim, I complained about Barb. I wanted him to end his trip early. The real business that needed taken care of was at home.

One evening during dinner Lowery asked, “Why are Barb’s boobies so big?” To which I first had to question where she learned the term “boobies,” and then had to call my mother to yell at her.

The next day Lowery asked if I would straighten her perfect, white tendrils because she wanted her hair straight and long like Barb’s.

My biggest fear was coming true.

Meanwhile, my sweet, precious, innocent toddler London has just begun to learn words, clocking around a new word a week. Each word is a beautiful surprise, and we all gasp in excitement when we hear a new one escape her lips. Last week it was “yellow.” The week before it was “hot dog.” Every word is delicate and special and are among the first building blocks of my child’s knowledge. And then, with my husband still away and my four-year-old immersed in Mattel, London waddled over to Barb, picked her up and inspected her. She looked up at me, smiled brightly, and as clearly as she’s ever said any word, exclaimed “Barbie!”

I wept the entire way to work.

After a week of having Barb around, I began to feel as though perhaps just this one anatomically incorrect doll couldn’t possibly warp my daughter’s sense of self-worth. But then, when I picked Lowery up at school, I found a large, lumpy bag in her cubby. I opened it to see a lovely note from one of the teachers:

“Dear Meg, these are my daughter’s old Barbies for Lowery. Enjoy!”

And under the thoughtful note was a tangle of perfectly tanned plastic limbs, peeking out through sparkly spandex and shiny hair. It was a sack filled to the brim with the one toy I never wanted my child to have.

At home, my daughter was more engaged and occupied than I’d ever seen her. Typically, Lowery needs constant attention. A truly unreasonable amount of interaction and feedback. But with the perky-breasted dolls around, she didn’t need a thing from me. She played happily in her room for hours with the sack of dolls. Changing their outfits, curling their hair and acting out interesting and imaginative scenarios between them.

One night, the night before my husband was set to arrive home and help me flush all the Barbie shoes down the toilet, Lowery came downstairs with her arms filled with plastic.

“Play with me,” she said, as she handed me G.E.D. Barbie.

“I’ll play with you, Sweetie,” I responded. “But I won’t play Barbies.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I am actually not happy you have these Barbies.”

She looked hurt and confused. “But they are so fun to play with.”

“That may be,” I said. “But they aren’t realistic.”

“But mom…” Lowery sighed heavily. “They are just pretend.”

“I know…”

“And they were a really nice gift from my teacher,” she continued.

“That’s true….”

“And it’s fun to play them with London,” she pressed.

It was possible, I thought, that my child was out-maturing me in what was a defining moment in my parenting. These dolls were a very generous gift; I certainly couldn’t deny that. And I had seen how well my two daughters played together with them; it was really the first true playing the sisters were able to engage in. Plus, Lowery clearly understood it was all pretend. If she could grasp that Candy Striper Barbie and Pharmaceutical Sales Rep Barbie were just pretending to be attacked by a dinosaur, then she would probably realize their body shape was also a thing of make believe.

“And they have the cutest shoes!” she declared.

“Right there!” I stood up and threw my hands in the air. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. These dolls are not a realistic depiction of what women can or should dress like! Have you ever tried walking in heels that high?!”

She looked at me, clearly confused, so I pushed on, forgetting I was talking with a four-year-old.

“Lowery, I’m worried you will grow up thinking this is what women look like.”

She looked at Barb for a long time. And then back at me. Then at Barb again.

“But, this is what you look like!” she exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You look just like this doll! Your hair is the same color. Your skin is the same color. You look just like Barbie!”

I looked at her, looking back and forth between the Barbie and her mother, trying to find what exactly was different between us. And so before she had the chance to figure it out, I got down on the floor next to her, grabbed a Barbie and said:

“Let’s keep pretending.”