“But everybody else was doing it,” my daughters both yelled out in unison when I caught them doing something they clearly shouldn’t have been doing. This seems to be an excuse as old as time itself. When God found out Adam and Eve sampled the forbidden fruit, Adam must have taken one step backwards into the Garden of Eden, pointed wildly at Eve, and said, “Well, she’s the one who ate it first!” No wonder God lost his temper! But before I go off on a tangent about the unfairness of God punishing all women for that original sin, I should tell you the story of how they (my daughters, not Adam and Eve, of course) got into so much trouble.
It happened one afternoon not too long ago when we had a few families over for a cookout. Well, it was more than just a few . . . more like a tri-state Baptist convention on a holiday weekend. Or maybe it just felt that way to me because I didn’t get to visit, make polite small talk, crack a joke, eat, or really sit down at all during the cookout. The only time I got out of the kitchen was to check on the grill.
That was when I saw something that has given me nightmares ever since . . .
A trail of Barbie heads ran from the bottom of the steps, through the house and out the back door to the trampoline. The trail, made up of three dozen petite, perfectly coiffed little heads, was at least fifty feet long and sometimes as much as two feet wide. These heads had all different types of hair colors and styles, a variety of lip tints. Their perfectly penciled brows shaped 72 eyes that stared up at me helplessly from the hardwood floors. The only sight more disturbing was the carnage of the beheaded Barbie bodies in various states of undress that had been strewn all over the upstairs bedrooms by a small army of seven little girls. No wonder I can’t sleep.
“Who did this?” I asked the pigtailed, five foot and under-sized mob.
Then came the answer I have been dreading to hear for the past nine years from one of my own girls: “Well, everybody else started doing it.”
“I only took off three,” cried the other one, as I shook my head in disappointment.
I was much more upset by the fact that they didn’t say, “Stop, this isn’t right,” than the fact they ended up destroying something they once loved. What comes next, the proverbial bridge and a lifelong smoking habit? What happened to all of those things that I’ve taught them so far: to stand up for something you think is wrong, to be an individual and an original, not to care what other people think, to only stay true to your own values and your own heart? What in the world had I done wrong?
“Who does this?” I asked. And then I remembered.
I did.
It was 1981. I was nine at the time. A new friend from down the road had come over after school and we had barricaded ourselves in my bedroom away from my annoying little brother. I opened my closet door to show her my prized collection when she started laughing hysterically. I stood there feeling foolish, not knowing what she thought was so funny.
“Aren’t you a little too old to still be playing with Barbies?” This came out as more of a statement than a question. She plopped down on my futon holding her belly while I stood there for a long time feeling about as tall as the twelve inch Self Tanning Malibu Barbie I held in my hand.
Later that night, I took my favorite Cher Barbie doll, the one with the special key that could change the length of her hair making it go into a bob or all the way to her feet, into the bathroom. It was the one I loved and played with the most. And for reasons that to this day I don’t really fully comprehend, I unrolled all of her long, glossy hair, brushed it all out, and then cut it all off into tiny bits that stuck all over the sink.
Life lessons are called life lessons for a good reason. These lessons take different spans of time to figure out, but often a number of years must be lived to learn something substantial from them. No one else can teach them to you. There is no cure. No vaccine. No easy out. You have to experience life yourself with all its conundrums to figure out how to do what’s right. Maybe you have to become part of the mold before you know how to break it. I guess even if this means pulling off Barbie heads or cutting off all their hair to fit in before you realize you don’t have to go along with everybody else to be liked in the first place.
My husband had a different reaction to Operation Kill Barbie. He was upset too, but because it hurt him to see them lose their innocence. It was the first step in letting go of those sweet things that come and go before you know it: footed pajamas, teddy bears, the tooth fairy, and the color cotton candy pink.
Do you remember how we always thought our parents didn’t understand? They did. And we do, too. It’s just funny how easily we forget that we too were once children with the same problems, the same moral dilemmas, and the same peer pressures.
I am not so mad about the massacre anymore. As my wise and witty friend Mr. Buddy told me, with perspective, i.e. time, I’d see that the slaughter wasn’t such a big deal. “At least it wasn’t the cats,” he said. And he’s right. Kids make mistakes. We make mistakes. All we can do in the end is our best. Another wise friend, Deb, put it all into perspective for me the other day, when she said, “I went to the beach with seven kids, came home with seven kids. So I guess I am doing okay.”
I agree with Deb. I really do. If we keep plugging away doing our best, doing what we can day by day, I think we will all be okay in the end, headless Barbie dolls and all.
Note: My wise and witty friend, Mr. Buddy, has a blog at mcbud.wordpress.com that y’all should check out. Speaking of blogs, I haven’t forgotten about mine, I promise! I have added some new stuff since I have been back in town, so check it out!
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