in defense of barbie
by lisa horak

I swore I’d never do it. I told everyone how when I became a parent I would not succumb to Barbie Madness.

Nope. My girls were not going to be sucked into the negative imaging, excessive packaging, gender stereotyping, overpriced insanity that is Barbie.

Motherhood, however, turns out to be incredibly humbling. I find I am constantly wrong about assumptions I made B.C.—Before Children.

But back to Barbie. It all started when my husband purchased a Duke University Cheerleader Barbie for our daughter Molly, long before she was old enough to play with dolls. In one fell swoop he successfully paid homage to my alma mater while undermining my entire well-thought-out Barbie philosophy. Who says men aren’t capable of multi-tasking?

I was a bit taken aback. “Didn’t they have a Duke women’s basketball player?” I asked him. I mean, come on. A cheerleader? For my girls, who are constantly reminded that they can be whatever they want in this huge, incredible world, building on the amazing advances women have worked so hard to achieve. “Just this one,” I told my confused husband, who really and truly thought I would love the Duke Barbie.

Then a friend gave us Champion Swimmer Barbie, and I began to relax. OK, this is better. Sure she was slim and flawless and unattainably beautiful, but here was a role model that I could endorse. Clearly Barbie’s years of hard work and chilly 8:00 a.m. swimming lessons at the neighborhood pool paid off. Now she is a champion. Wind a little thingy on her back, put her in the bathtub and she does a zippy little backstroke. She even comes with a towel, warm up jacket, and gold medal. My girls loved her. And then there were two.

But oh, what a slippery slope we were on. Next came a series of about four different Barbie brides, all of whom are betrothed to Ken, our token male doll. My three-year-old Isabel constantly explains that Barbie is the bride and Ken is the “broom.” Only our Ken has green hair thanks to some glitter nail polish that five-year-old Molly thought would enhance Ken’s boyish good looks. We have a posse of tiny “Kelly” dolls, Kelly being one of Barbie’s little sisters. We also have a macabre assortment of heads and limbs from what we call “dollar store Barbies;” clearly they are Barbie’s cheaper, more poorly made relations from the wrong side of the tracks.

Then came the holidays and Grandma kicked into high gear. Suddenly we had the Barbie microbus (seats six!) We had Barbie’s friend Theresa who has butterfly wings and “flies” on a wire. The Barbie Rapunzel video and computer game have mesmerized my girls for hours at a time.

However, also at holiday time, my husband and I discovered a Barbie fishing rod and tackle box that we purchased for Molly’s fifth birthday. We were truly impressed. If anything could get an otherwise squeamish girl to go fishing, this would be it. I’d rather have a girlish tomboy than no tomboy at all! Somehow we found ourselves up to our ears in Barbie paraphernalia.

But amid all of that excess something made me change my mind about Barbie. I realized that Barbie herself is not the root of all evil, at least for creative children with bright and curious minds. Sure, she is unrealistically beautiful and unattainably thin. Sure, she has no wrinkles, gray hair, or stretch marks despite the fact that she is probably by now way older than I am. (There is, however, a new pregnant Barbie doll with a tiny baby that comes inside Barbie’s detachable tummy!)

I realized that Barbie has more than spunk; this chick has career ambition. One of our latest acquisitions is Baby Doctor Barbie. She comes with two itty bitty babies in receiving blankets, microscopic tongue depressors, an otoscope, and all the other critical tools of the trade. A pediatrician! Now the folks at Mattel were starting to use their noggins and really appeal to parents, who at least in this pre-allowance stage still control the purse strings.

But I mostly write in defense of Barbie because for many children she is a wonderful launching pad for little imaginations to take off. Most days during her “quiet time”—a euphemism for “refuses to nap anymore”—my daughter Molly plays school with her Barbies, and I hear her actually teaching them everything she knows. Other days she busily organizes elaborate birthday parties, hospital wards, plays, and of course, weddings.

Which reminds me, I’ve got to run—Barbie and Ken’s latest wedding is about to start.