Why blow-job-queen barbie makes me want another baby

To Barbie or not to Barbie - that is not the question. We are a decidely Barbie household. Not pro-Barbie, but it just is what it is, we accept it b/c we are so Zen, and we make peace w/the plastic one. Of course I was anti-Barbie when S-ph was a babe. And hats off to those of you who have actually maintained a Barbie-free household. I wasn't anti-Barbie, as in never - it was more aspirational, like I hoped we didn't have to have Barbie, and that if we did, have to have her, that it would be a late onset. Then S-phie went to a b-day party when she was two, as in twenty-four months old, for another two- year-old, also as in twenty-four-months old, and lo and behold she returned home w/Barbie. Barbie was the party favor. Did I mention this party was for a two-year-old? (Granted, this kid's mother was batshit crazy - she made her daughter's bday cake w/Splenda, but then gave two-year olds Barbie, and she was rude to boot - the one and only time she came to our house, for S-ph's 3rd b-day, where we gave out books as favors (b/c we are so superior), and this she went into the bathroom off my bedroom (both doors closed) and started using my hairdryer and brush w/o asking or telling me (not that I really minded, but I found it rather odd, esp considering that I barely knew her) and then she told me that our house is so cute that "I bet you could get it on one of those shows where they come and fix it.") Sorry, but I could not resist that aside. Back to Barbie: apparently, according to S-ph's amazing nanny at the time who had taken her to the party at batshit-crazy woman's house, when S-phie got the Barbie, she said: "beautiful long yellow hair." WTF? It's been awhile, to put it modestly, since I've read any Jung, but this really makes a strong case for the whole archetype thing. Perhaps I should consult Joseph Campbell who was always more accessible than Jung and who has the added bonus of talking about Star Wars. But all I know is that my daughter, two years old, who had never seen nor heard of Barbie, to my knowledge, and who had never seen a Disney princess movie (and did not own anything princess and had not been to daycare yet), instinctually knew about the value of a woman's long yellow hair.

In any case, she played w/the Barbie w/the beautiful long yellow hair for a couple of days and then lost interest and we discretely tossed her in the garbage. I knew she would be back, but it made me happy to throw her away, like burning an effigy of the long yellow hair archetype. When Barbie came back into our lives, when S-phie was probably three, it was okay w/me. I mean, I still kind of cringed, but when I saw how she played w/them and how imaginative she was and how she was working out all kinds of social and emotional issues, I harbored less and less ill towards Barbie. And we got a variety of ethnic Barbies and brunettes, etc., and I would talk about how silly it was that her boobs were so huge and that her feet were stuck in stiletto pose, and it was all okay. In fact, I really considered the whole relationship w/Barbie to be a grand success when S-phie said to me one night, after watching a Barbie Princess movie, "how come the Barbie Princess always has yellow hair and peach skin?" And then we talked about how most people don't have yellow hair and how even though other Barbies in the movies had brown hair, they were never the star, not to mention that all of them were always white, and it was a great "teaching moment," as we who accept Barbie try to rationalize it.  (BTW, Barbie princess movies are odd because they star Barbie, but Barbie is strong and saves the day, usually leaving the male character in the dust).

Then came the Bratz. I just could not do it. Still can't. Why why why S-phie wanted to know. "Because they are Bratz and bratz are people who are not nice and we're not buying a doll who is famous for being mean." S-phie sensed what a load of bullshit this was, but then one day I let her watch the Bratz show on Saturday a.m. and I was appalled, not by how slutty they were, which was what I expected based on their look, but by how mean and catty and materialistic they were. S-phie was silent. I think she couldn't believe it either. But she still wanted the dolls b/c she said she would make hers nice, which she would have. But no was no and even though I wondered if I was making the right decision, I stuck w/it.

Then came My Scene dolls (Bratz-inspired Barbies). At first I said no to these, that they were for teenagers. Weak, weak, pathetic argument.  I knew I was fucked - they are Barbies and she's allowed to have Barbies - so it was only a matter of time. For her bday this year, she got six one dollar bills from my feminist aunt. And then after she went to get a checkup and had to get two shots, I gave her two bucks, b/c I knew she couldn't really buy anything much w/that six bucks, and she didn't even cry when she got the shots. Off to Toys-R-Us, and what do you know, the My Scene sluts were on sale for $8. She was eyeing them like crazy, while I tried to nonchalantly steer her towards bride Barbie (previously my worst nightmare). And I felt bad b/c I could see that she wanted the supersluts and that she felt ashamed or nervous b/c she knows I don't like them and she doesn't know how to reconcile that she wants something so much that I think is bad and then I think I am more bad than the slutty dolls, who can only make my daughter feel insecure about her body and her sex appeal and her stuff, not about her entire being like I can. So I cooly said she could have whichever doll she wanted that she could afford. Of course, she instantly gravitated towards this one, from the "Bling" line:


Folks, this picture does not even do justice to bling Barbie. Call me a Puritan, but at this point I was having a full blown parenting existential crisis. Although I tried to remain cool and indifferent, of course S-phie sensed my anxiety and was saying "what Mom, what about her?" I was at a loss for words, as I literally pondered telling her "She looks like a hooker - like someone who gives blow jobs for money." I mean, I knew what hookers were when I was that age, b/c my mom used to let me watch All My Children and I knew all about Billy Clyde, Estelle, and Donna. But S-phie doesn't even know about sex, as far as I know, so it seemed a bit much to get into the issue of selling sex for money on the street, (or even the issues of male fantasy and the objectification of women and how it may or may not be okay for women to hyper-sexualize themselves, depending on their reasons, and that we should not judge).  And if I took on prostitution with her, I'd have to explain that prostituion is not so glamorous as the Barbies or Bratz make it seem (perhaps followed by a viewing of Pretty Woman, the most offensive movie of all time, for a real teaching moment). Luckily, I bit my tongue. And luckily, she chose Nolee the Roller Girl, easily only the third or fourth-sluttiest My Scene doll:
Nolee comes frozen in her little box with a giant lollipop held to her mouth - the blonde one has a red lollipop to match her fire-engine red lipstick on her juicy lips. Needless to say, next time J-sh is taking S-ph to the toy store and I don't care what they get. Maybe I should just listen to Naomi Wolf and just embrace Bratz and all the little hotties (actually a very good article and not written by N. Wolf). I should just realize that I am just an old fogey and that as J-sh pointed out, Barbie looked like a slut in our day. I don't know. It's not just the sluttiness, it's the bling- the materialism and consumerism - no wonder they sell their bodies to the night, they have to buy juicy outfits. But it's the hyper-sexualization too, the extent of it, it really is - one of S-phie's friends in kindergarten who has Bratz drew a picture of me and S-phie and all around us it said, "hot hot hot hot." I was disturbed. Clearly, I am just not up to the task of parenting a six-year-old girl. There in the streetwalker-doll aisle, I found myself drifting off, in a sort of detached coping mechanism kind of way, thinking just give me a baby, where such complexities as whether or not to allow blow-job-queen Barbie are non-existent. But then she would just grow up too, so another baby is, unfortunately, not the answer to the blow-job-queen Barbie dilemma.