I may have said a thing or two about our wholesome upbringing. My Mum and Dad were alternative types, living a very simple and frugal life in times when it seemed that hardly anyone else did, or at least, no one else we knew. Amidst all the wholemeal flour, the handmade toys, the books and the free-form artwork, I longed, LONGED for a Barbie. I wanted it to be plastic, pink, and matchy-matching. I explained this to my Mum and from pursed lips she said “I’ll think about it”. It must have grated against everything she wanted for us, but at the same time, she wanted us to have our own opinions.
She gave me a Cindy doll. I look back now and I love that she did. She really tried to give me that slice of popular culture, but when she got to the shop they all looked the same to her and Cindy it was. Within a few days its head had been pulled off and lost by my brothers, and a goony face had been drawn on the ball joint that was left. I can’t remember doing anything fun with it. I didn’t even make it any clothes.
Anyway, a few days ago Mum asked what Sylvie wanted for her 4th birthday. When I told her that she’d asked for a Barbie, Mum took her shopping and bought the exact one that she wanted.