Today, as I contemplated giving my daughter’s Barbie collection away, I found myself unable to part with them. My daughter, on the other hand, would never even notice. She is done with them. After all, they’ve been boxed in the attic for almost a year now. But I am attached.
This attachment, I realize, is like my attachment to spending time with my child.
I can’t accept that playtime is over.
For nearly 7 years, we played Barbies religiously. We spent countless days and evenings sitting on her floor, a sticky carpet with patches of slime or gum encrusted to it, moving these dolls around. We’d create wild plots and characters. We gave each of them names and personality traits: there was “Diva,” the snob; “Extra,” who always caused drama; “Raquelle,” a raven haired rocker, the nuisance of the bunch; and the twin babies, “Oakley and Everly,” who ended up in precarious situations, like stuck in the Dream House elevator.
And who could forget Candy Mae, a gymnast toddler with space buns, who we deemed evil and manipulative? We’d crack up laughing when she held onto Ken’s neck, staring, threatening revenge on her mother.
My daughter always initiating the playtime, calling downstairs, “Mom! Can you play Barbies with me? I have an amazing plot.”
And I’d go to her room, where she’d have created an elaborate set, complete with decorated bedrooms, and even a mall with Claire’s and Sephora, where Diva liked to shop.
At the time, I was exhausted and didn’t feel like playing dolls. I had worked a full day, raced to get her and her brother at after school care, followed by dinner, bath, and books. I was tired.
But I knew this time was short lived. So I acquiesced.
Or sometimes I’d use it as bribery, or motivation for her to do something against her will: “If you go to this party with me, I will play Barbies with you.” There was power in that.
But, last year, when my daughter started fifth grade, we took the Barbies out to play. I was excited with a great plot: it was a Teen Dance, and Diva wanted to steal Raquel’s boyfriend. It was salacious, compelling.
Yet, about five minutes in, just as we got going, my daughter said, “I don’t think I want to play anymore.”
And, that was it.
Before I knew it, the Barbies were packed up, making room for her computer and a vanity for skincare.
I remember being in the grocery store when my children were little. My daughter sat in the front seat of the cart, and my son held onto the back. People would laugh and say, “You’ve got your hands full,” and “Embrace it! It goes so fast.”
Incredulous, I’d reply, “It doesn’t seem fast to me; it’s rather lugubrious, the passage of time.”
But, today, when I thought to give away the Barbies, I shuddered that time had elapsed so quickly. They were right! No one asks me to play anymore.
I can’t bear to part with these Barbies, because it would be an admission that that time is over.
I’m not ready.
So, for now, I will keep them.