Like many young girls, our daughters, ages eight and six, were big Barbie Doll fans. They could pass an entire afternoon acting out complex Barbie adventures.
This play day, however, was a little different. Things had been very quiet for way too long, so I decided to pay a visit to the playroom. As I headed down the hall a disturbing site greeted me. Hanging from the bedroom doorknob was Malibu Barbie. Her neck was bent at a curious angle and her body twisted slowly against the wooden panels.
“Probably means nothing,” I thought to myself as I softly rapped on the door. There was vague mumbling in response, so I let myself into their room.
In the middle of the floor sat our oldest daughter, Carrie, with a dozen dolls lines up in military order. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of Ken, Barbie’s long-time boyfriend, swinging from the closest door, missing his left arm and leg.
“Well girls,” I said, trying to stay calm, “What are you playing?”
Carrie’s sister Beth answered with enthusiasm. “Barbie is in big trouble, really big trouble. “ That seemed like something of an understatement considering the apparent punishment.
“And what about Ken?” I asked. “Things don’t seem to be going so well for him.”
“We are just playing Mom, no big deal,” Carrie said in a dismissive tone.
That was it. No more explanation, no more discussion. After a couple of minutes I left the room and quietly closed the door. It was on my way past the bathroom when I noticed Skipper, Barbie’s younger sister. She was also hanging from a handle in a position as awkward as big sister Malibu Barbie.
Not knowing what else to do, I let Skipper hang and retreated to the kitchen. This was all very disturbing. What could it possibly mean? Were my happy well-adjusted children latent sociopaths? Was the appalling treatment of Barbie and crew a reaction to bad parenting? Was this the beginning of something even worse?
I was beside myself with worry. For the rest of the afternoon I perused parenting manuals and magazines in search of some explanation. None of my research even came close to discussing Barbie abuse. As the hours passed, my fear escalated until I decided to go back to the playroom and face the situation head-on.
I was mentally preparing myself for the confrontation as I headed down the hall. The first thing I noticed was the absence of Malibu Barbie on the doorknob. That seemed like a good sign. I knocked gently and was greeted by a cheerful, “C’mon in Mom.”
Inside I couldn’t help but notice that Barbie, Skipper and Ken, nicely dressed and with all their parts and pieces, were back in the playhouse.
“So,” I said casually, “You guys have been in here all afternoon. What’s up?”
“Well, it was the Barbie Olympics today,” offered Beth. “We were pretty busy and Ken, Malibu Barbie and Skipper were kind of a problem. But we took care of it. Everything is good now. We just put them in time out for a while.”
I wasn’t really sure what to make of that. Perhaps the doorknobs were some strange Olympic events, or perhaps it was time-out, which apparently seemed like a near death experience to my kids. I just didn’t know.
However, I had gained one piece of wisdom from my research that afternoon. Kids have vivid imaginations and neurotic mothers should not jump to conclusions.
My sunny daughters were back and the gallows had been decommissioned. I decided to follow the good advice of Dr. Spock and assume the best.
At least until the next time.
