Listen to this, Barbie!
Dear Barbie,
It's me, Jenny, the pixie-haired girl from the black-shingled house with the carport out front. You remember. I'd sprawl across my flowered bedspread and brush your hair. Sometimes I would pop off your head. With childlike innocence, I'd mash you against Ken, not knowing why but guessing you might enjoy it.
Our relationship was so simple. But now, Barbie, I'm Mrs. Sokol. I'm a mom, and since you started hanging out with my preschooler, I'm not at all comfortable with our relationship. You see, this year, five of you have infiltrated my home disguised as gifts.
Five!
I'm still reeling from the force and magnitude of the attack. You've heard the charges against you - that if you were a real woman, you wouldn't have enough body fat to menstruate. Or that you wouldn't be able to stand up because your tiny feet wouldn't support your bodacious curves. You've been legitimately criticized for your absurdly high heels and ultra-hip wardrobe, not to mention your vacant, accessory boyfriend, Ken.
I know you exist in forms other than Diva and Princess. I'm aware that you're both an Olympic gymnast and an astronaut. But even your uneven bar routine can't distract me from the fact that you're a 110-pound, 5-foot-6-inch gymnast with a 39-inch chest, cascading mane and bubble-gum-pink lipstick.
Are you beginning to see, Barbie, how becoming a mother has complicated our relationship?
You see, I hope my daughter isn't shackled by conventional stereotypes. I hope that, as an adult, she'll stand in front of a mirror and see her own unique self, not a collection of features that don't measure up to yours. And they never will, since it's literally impossible to do so. Beyond self-image, I hope that my daughter is more intent on finding her purpose in her life than on accumulating a closet full of itty-bitty tops.
Why have moms like me allowed you, even encouraged you in our homes? We let our daughters repeatedly dress and undress you, ingraining in their subconscious what a woman should look like naked. They sprawl across their flowered bedspreads and slip on your wedge heels and spandex dresses. Astonishingly, we, the consumers, purchase you at the rate of two per second. In doing so, we've enabled you to help set the bar - the unrealistic standard of beauty - for white American women.
What's that you're saying, Barbie? Lighten up, you crazed feminist?
Oh, I know you're just a toy - that these are my issues, not yours. Maybe it is personal, because I never measured up to you either.
In high school I wore comfortable shoes. The rubber bands on my braces often popped out of my mouth during conversation. Retin-A cleared my face of pimples but left it raw and flaking. Maybe I'm just miffed by your flawless, effortless beauty because I yearned for it myself. I remember holding you up to my own mother as a child, when my fingers weren't yet adept enough to change your outfits. At the time, did I notice the dichotomy of the images - my mother, wearing sneakers while ironing, vs. you, preparing to sun poolside in a tiny bikini? Did I realize yet that the real image of beauty was freckle-faced, short-haired Mom?
So here's the deal, Babs. I'm not going to send you packing or forbid my daughter to see you. Just expect to see less of her, and get used to that spot on the top shelf.
You ambushed me, Barbie, but now I've had time to search for alternatives, realistic dolls who actually wear underwear and practical-enough-for-the-playground shoes. Dolls that my daughter can see glimpses of herself in and her mother can live with.
Take care,
Mrs. Sokol
--------
JENNY SOKOL
Register columnist
NOTE: I posted this cuz I knew you all would get a kick out of it. :) Probably one of my favorites so far.
It's me, Jenny, the pixie-haired girl from the black-shingled house with the carport out front. You remember. I'd sprawl across my flowered bedspread and brush your hair. Sometimes I would pop off your head. With childlike innocence, I'd mash you against Ken, not knowing why but guessing you might enjoy it.
Our relationship was so simple. But now, Barbie, I'm Mrs. Sokol. I'm a mom, and since you started hanging out with my preschooler, I'm not at all comfortable with our relationship. You see, this year, five of you have infiltrated my home disguised as gifts.
Five!
I'm still reeling from the force and magnitude of the attack. You've heard the charges against you - that if you were a real woman, you wouldn't have enough body fat to menstruate. Or that you wouldn't be able to stand up because your tiny feet wouldn't support your bodacious curves. You've been legitimately criticized for your absurdly high heels and ultra-hip wardrobe, not to mention your vacant, accessory boyfriend, Ken.
I know you exist in forms other than Diva and Princess. I'm aware that you're both an Olympic gymnast and an astronaut. But even your uneven bar routine can't distract me from the fact that you're a 110-pound, 5-foot-6-inch gymnast with a 39-inch chest, cascading mane and bubble-gum-pink lipstick.
Are you beginning to see, Barbie, how becoming a mother has complicated our relationship?
You see, I hope my daughter isn't shackled by conventional stereotypes. I hope that, as an adult, she'll stand in front of a mirror and see her own unique self, not a collection of features that don't measure up to yours. And they never will, since it's literally impossible to do so. Beyond self-image, I hope that my daughter is more intent on finding her purpose in her life than on accumulating a closet full of itty-bitty tops.
Why have moms like me allowed you, even encouraged you in our homes? We let our daughters repeatedly dress and undress you, ingraining in their subconscious what a woman should look like naked. They sprawl across their flowered bedspreads and slip on your wedge heels and spandex dresses. Astonishingly, we, the consumers, purchase you at the rate of two per second. In doing so, we've enabled you to help set the bar - the unrealistic standard of beauty - for white American women.
What's that you're saying, Barbie? Lighten up, you crazed feminist?
Oh, I know you're just a toy - that these are my issues, not yours. Maybe it is personal, because I never measured up to you either.
In high school I wore comfortable shoes. The rubber bands on my braces often popped out of my mouth during conversation. Retin-A cleared my face of pimples but left it raw and flaking. Maybe I'm just miffed by your flawless, effortless beauty because I yearned for it myself. I remember holding you up to my own mother as a child, when my fingers weren't yet adept enough to change your outfits. At the time, did I notice the dichotomy of the images - my mother, wearing sneakers while ironing, vs. you, preparing to sun poolside in a tiny bikini? Did I realize yet that the real image of beauty was freckle-faced, short-haired Mom?
So here's the deal, Babs. I'm not going to send you packing or forbid my daughter to see you. Just expect to see less of her, and get used to that spot on the top shelf.
You ambushed me, Barbie, but now I've had time to search for alternatives, realistic dolls who actually wear underwear and practical-enough-for-the-playground shoes. Dolls that my daughter can see glimpses of herself in and her mother can live with.
Take care,
Mrs. Sokol
--------
JENNY SOKOL
Register columnist
NOTE: I posted this cuz I knew you all would get a kick out of it. :) Probably one of my favorites so far.