The Barbie Chronicles

Every morning, when N and I get in the car to drive to school and work (his preschool is on the university campus where I work), he invariably begins wailing for "my Bobby"--a naked-from-the-waist-down, abandoned Barbie doll from E's prodigious collection. (And no, I didn't buy her a single one of them. I wear my Barbie-hating like a badge, though it hasn't really made a damned bit of difference to anyone else...)

The first time I sort of smiled to myself as I handed "Bobby" to him, thinking fondly back to "Free To Be You and Me," and proud of my little gender-neutral guy with the nurturing instincts. That little fantasy died an abrupt and brutal death within minutes, however, as I started hearing clunking noises from behind me, and caught a glimpse of N repeatedly bashing Barbie's blonde, touseled head into the window, then roughly spreading her legs into a split position and raising her above his head so that one toe grazed the ceiling of the car. "Cwap, Mommy, cwap! Yay, Bobby! Bobby touch the see-wing!"

I clapped, of course, just as directed.

This morning, after retrieving poor, battered Barbie from the car floor, where she lay amidst an embarrassingly large collection of crushed Honey Nut Cheerios, Fruit Loops and Cocoa Puffs, N was quiet for a few moments. Just as I began to wonder what was going on back there, I heard a cheerful, "I tuck, Mommy, I tuck!" I peered in the rearview mirror to find that he had deliberately stuck his hand in between Barbie's legs, so that she was straddling him. When I turned around, he wiggled his fingers at me. I laughed, and N grinned at me. "I tuck, but I like it, Mommy."

Yes, son, I imagine you do.