Walk through any home where children reside and you’ll find them.
Naked Barbie dolls, that is. Ken, too.
Piled haphazardly, standing at perfect attention or stuffed inside a Barbie Dream House with nothing but bare feet and legs protruding from the dormer windows—that’s where they’ll be. They have but one thing in common—nakedness.
I find this observable fact rather amusing—and curious. Why do they do it? Why do our children strip them completely bare with not so much as a pair of pink, plastic stilettos to dignify them? Even G.I. Joe’s dog tags often wind up missing in action. Our kids beg and plead for those prized accessories, but when it comes to serious make-believe, they clearly play second fiddle.
How do we know this?
The moment we leave the store, our impetuous charges tear into the packages, rip off the clothing and begin the important ritual of inspection, as if every rubbery, synthetic toe and ear lobe must be accounted for. At home, the scrutiny only intensifies. In a less-than-gentle manner, they twist, bend and contort the latest Barbie clan member as if it must pass some sort of torturous muster.
Then the real drama begins.
It’s time to make them talk—to each other, of course. Or to themselves—a rudimentary soliloquy of sorts. I have to admit, listening to such “conversations” is one of my favorite things about being a parent. It’s like spying, but legal in all 50 states. And it’s true; kids do say the damnedest things. Many of which occur during Barbie powwows.
As if the issue of nudity isn’t enough, in our household the existing toyscape is even more bizarre. Not only are the dolls here naked as jaybirds, some are also missing limbs and a couple have no heads. Granted, this does lend itself to highly animated doctor play since these particular Barbies are in dire need of medical attention.
Or a trauma unit.
It’s amazing to me how children can be mesmerized by toys that are rife with imperfections—like blatantly obvious deficiencies in the appendage department. I suppose it’s no different today than during my own childhood though. My fascination never waned even though many of my little green army men (my brother’s, actually) had been gnawed beyond recognition by our dog.
Clearly, active combat was to blame.
Even at that age, I knew all was fair in love and war—even savagely cruel helmet nibbling. It went with the territory.
Apparently, naked Barbie dolls serve a similar purpose. They are part and parcel of nearly every child’s active imagination.
The jury is still out, however, on the missing head/limb variety.
Planet Mom. It’s where I live.
Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel