With all the fuss over the Barbie Movie, I am thinking about Barbie. This takes place in the 1990s. I wrote it in 2018.

When my extroverted feeler son is four, he announces that he wants a Barbie for Christmas. Hmmm, I think.

I tell my mother. She sends him a Barbie. Blonde hair to her ankles and in an itsy bitsy blue glitter bikini. My son names her Pocahontas.

Back to work in January. On the first day back to daycare, my son is searching for something. “Mom?”

I am rushing around getting ready for work.

“Where is my backpack?” He has a small pink backpack with shiny gems pasted on it. We moved from Portland, Oregon to Alamosa, Colorado. All the kids in the Portland parent run daycare insisted on pink jelly sandals, both girls and boys. My son has stopped wearing pink immediately when he goes to the Colorado daycare.

I find the backpack. He stuffs the Barbie in headfirst, satisfied. Hmmm, I think. Taking Barbie to daycare. I take him to daycare and then stand and watch. He is working the room. He goes to a girl, says “Look!” and holds the backpack so she can see inside.

That evening I ask him. “Who did you show the Barbie to?”

“I showed it to Anna and Marni and Becka and Marie,” he says.

“Did you show the Barbie to any boys?”

“Mom!” he says with scorn. “You don’t show Barbies to boys!”

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The Barbie ambulance opens out into a clinic. Twin one, on the Get Real Girl’s lap, has bright red cheeks. Probably parvovirus. Twin two in the cradle has no rash. If I had worn heels like this Dr. Barbie while working, I would have never made it through a day!