I’m so ashamed. I’ve gone and done something I swore I would never, ever, ever do. I’ve compromised my beliefs. I have become an empty shell of the person I once was.
I cannot blame it on anyone else, or anything else. Sure the stress of the election, the never-ending list of appointments for the baby, my bulging waistline, my shrinking bank account. All of these things have a tendency to wear on you, and maybe make you compromise a little here and there in order to keep things sane. But even that is no excuse for what I’ve done.
excuse me, I just threw up a little…
No, no, no…I bought two.
The first one was a couple of weeks ago as I scavenged Mervyn’s. I rationalized it by saying, “it’s the Little Mermaid” it’s just made by Barbie. She doesn’t look like Barbie, she has flippers.
But then, today, I did it again. At McDonald’s of all places. I bought a Barbie at McDonald’s. Good God, I may as well have purchased crack from Walmart.
Grace wanted chicken nuggets and I usually get her lunch on the way home from EPU on Wednesdays. I could have just got her the nuggets and fries, we have beverages at home. We didn’t need the Happy Meal. But there she was. I have no excuse.
We brought her home and unwrapped her. She’s British apparently. She’s wearing a “London” t-shirt and a skirt made of the British flag. We named her Jane.
I can’t stop myself, Grace just gets the sweetest little look on her face when she holds a real doll, even if it is an emaciated, totally unrealistic depiction of the female body that is sure to turn her into a bimbo with an eating disorder. She’s just so happy to have a dolly, what am I supposed to do?
And before my mother chimes in with some snarky comment about whether or not I’m going to cut all of the Barbies’ hair off (because I used to do that to all my sisters dolls when I was a kid), let me just say that, yes, as a matter of fact I am going to give her a little trim. She has dead ends, possibly an engineering flaw but still, there’s no excuse for bad hair.
But that’s not the worst of it. Oh yes, it gets worse. I want princess stuff. I mean, Grace wants princess stuff. No, I mean that I want Grace to have princess stuff, because she wants it. Oh hell, forget it, it’s me…it’s all me. I want my daughter to dress like a princess. There! I said it! I want her to insist on wearing a tiara and PVC “glass” slippers everywhere we go because I think it’s adorable when she twirls around at home saying “I a pincess mama, I a pincess!” I think it’s adorable that she says she’s “bootafoo” and “gor-jus” and “so pitty.” Even though I once insisted that she could only play dress up if the costume required a college degree, I now see that dressing up as Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg might not be as much fun – and honestly, I don’t think my daughter should be carrying a gavel around the baby.