It’s official…I have completely lost my mind

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.

I….bought….

….

….

excuse me, I just threw up a little…

I bought….

….

a Barbie.

 

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.

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