Three Generations of Playing Barbie
It was 1959 and I was 10 years old when I first saw a Barbie doll. She was given to me on my birthday. As soon as I laid eyes on this beautiful blue-eyed, blonde, bomb-shell, wearing pastel pink lipstick, I was star-struck.
If only I could look like her someday I thought.
I was a prepubescent girl, in a 4th-grade sex ed class learning the details of how my body will soon change from a little girl’s to a woman’s. I prayed that my tiny, little breast buds would eventually change into Barbie’s big boobs — they fascinated me.
My neighborhood friend, Gwen, got a doll too and we would rush home from school get out our brand-new Barbie dolls, and play for hours in the corner of her basement. Although we had a lot of fun dressing them up in beautiful sparkly clothes and mile-high heels, we missed playing with our baby dolls.
We played baby dolls in the neighborhood for as long as I knew Gwen, at least 5 years. We’d put our babies in their strollers and take them for walks. We’d dress them, change their diapers, and stop to give them bottles and pretend baby food.
We were not ready to give up our Babies for Barbies.
We wanted to be Barbie, not take care of her.
Gwen and I were now almost 12, some of our friends were already wearing bras…
