Close Call
My daughter owns a slew of Barbies and one Ken. She's got at least half a dozen of the standard-issue blond Barbies (ballerina Barbie, some kind of fairy Barbie with wings in her back, etc.) and a bunch of the Disney princess dolls. All of the females are basically interchangeable. It always startles me a little to see Belle wearing Ariel's dress and Snow White wearing Belle's dress and so forth. More often than not, however, everyone is naked. They all hang out in one big obscene jumble inside the plastic bin I bought for storing all of the dolls and their microscopic shoes. Princess Tiana, in particularly, has not bothered to get dressed since last Christmas. Also, I have to wonder how many moms out there are trying to figure out how to (surreptitiously) get rid of the big matted wad of hair that is . . . Rapunzel. I know I am.
When A is playing with her Barbies, I can hear lots of conversations going on, but she clams up when I walk by or even when she can tell I am in the vicinity. When I ask, "What were they talking about?" I get dramatic eye rolls and a "nothing, Mom!" response delivered in a tone of voice meant to convey that it is really none of my beeswax.
My curiosity persists, however. Yesterday I was in the kitchen and could hear the dolls "talking." I tiptoed down the short hallway and stationed myself around the corner so that I could eavesdrop. Hey, she could close her door but she doesn't - fair game, I say. Here is what I heard:
"Hey, get off my boyfriend! Do you even know her name?" Something unintelligible followed.
I felt the blood drain out of my face. Get off my boyfriend? Oh my. My mind was racing. What does she know or think she knows? Maybe the shows on Nickelodeon are racier than I realized. My sweet, innocent baby! I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, I took a deep breath and then willed myself to poke my head around the corner to see the shameless dolls for myself.
There stood Ken, held up by my daughter's hand wrapped around his calves. And there sat Ballerina Barbie . . . right on top of Ken's shoulders, her legs dangling past his armpits. Just like A sits on her dad's shoulders. Ha ha! Right! Get off my boyfriend. I am not sure which doll Ken is dating these days, but apparently she doesn't approve of the other Barbie trying to get a better view of the stage at the Big Time Rush concert or something.
Just then, my daughter saw me peeking. I smiled like I was an Alzheimer's patient just wandering the halls with no purpose. I turned on my heel and took my dirty mind back to the kitchen.
When A is playing with her Barbies, I can hear lots of conversations going on, but she clams up when I walk by or even when she can tell I am in the vicinity. When I ask, "What were they talking about?" I get dramatic eye rolls and a "nothing, Mom!" response delivered in a tone of voice meant to convey that it is really none of my beeswax.
My curiosity persists, however. Yesterday I was in the kitchen and could hear the dolls "talking." I tiptoed down the short hallway and stationed myself around the corner so that I could eavesdrop. Hey, she could close her door but she doesn't - fair game, I say. Here is what I heard:
"Hey, get off my boyfriend! Do you even know her name?" Something unintelligible followed.
I felt the blood drain out of my face. Get off my boyfriend? Oh my. My mind was racing. What does she know or think she knows? Maybe the shows on Nickelodeon are racier than I realized. My sweet, innocent baby! I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, I took a deep breath and then willed myself to poke my head around the corner to see the shameless dolls for myself.
There stood Ken, held up by my daughter's hand wrapped around his calves. And there sat Ballerina Barbie . . . right on top of Ken's shoulders, her legs dangling past his armpits. Just like A sits on her dad's shoulders. Ha ha! Right! Get off my boyfriend. I am not sure which doll Ken is dating these days, but apparently she doesn't approve of the other Barbie trying to get a better view of the stage at the Big Time Rush concert or something.
Just then, my daughter saw me peeking. I smiled like I was an Alzheimer's patient just wandering the halls with no purpose. I turned on my heel and took my dirty mind back to the kitchen.
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