Pre-kiddos, I had a scooter, and although I had a love/hate relationship with trying to hold on to a scooter in Baltimore, I loved my scooter, and subsequently anything to do with scooters.

When A was less than a year old, I found a Barbie with a Vespa. She was on sale, and I figured I could give it to A on a later birthday. This week A found it in the closet, so I relented and gave it to her. She is in love. Today Barbie rode with us to the farmers’ market, and was shown proudly to everyone we encountered. Turns out I was a bit horrified to be the parent of a Barbie wielding little girl. I felt as if my feminism, supposedly already tarnished by my choice to stay home, was being challenged. I know this is ridiculous. A toy shouldn’t provide validation of my parenting, but Barbie has a long history, and giving one to my daughter wasn’t an easy choice.

I only remember having one Barbie of my own. She was a ballerina and I got her after my first ballet recital. She was beautiful, and I was in awe. Unfortunately, the Barbies of the 70s had terrific rubber feet. They were soft with a bit of stiffness to them. They were the best things in the whole world to chew, and chew them I did. Wisely, my mother gave me no more Barbies. Once I was older, I played with my sister’s barbies. I never saw her as a figure of beauty to emulate, I saw her as an outlet to my imagination. Barbie had wild adventures. I remember how much fun I had with Barbie, and in today’s market of crazy sexualized toys, Barbie seems quaint, a nostalgic throwback. I have to wonder though, is this little plastic doll benign or is she somehow going to contribute to my daughter’s sense of self worth.

For now Barbie will stay, and have adventures in my house. Today she rode a bike, maybe tomorrow she will go to the moon.