My Barbie Dreamhouse has nothing to do with that frightening pink section in the popcorn store (this is what we call Target in my house). To be honest, I loathe Barbies and that whole genre of thinking. And the Brats dolls. Don’t even get me started on those. They are banned from my home. If you give one to my daughter, that’s grounds for irrevocable blacklisting.
My Barbie Dreamhouse is all about what that image represented in my life, growing up. Any excuse to be away from my house was a welcome one. For years after I left (which was at the age of 15 and not on my own terms), I had a visceral reaction to the house itself. Years passed until I was able to walk in that front door without wanting to crawl out of my skin. And it’s still fraught with ridiculously mixed emotions, all these years later.
Rewind to that childhood version of me. I didn’t like Barbies even at a young age. There were two ways to my heart; books (namely, every book in the Babysitters club series or anything by Judy Blume), and chocolate. Although my taste in books has changed, I am still a card carrying member of the bookworm club, and forever have a stash of chocolate, (dark, in case you’re interested, which I’m sure you are), somewhere in my house.
Walking home from school, I often psyched myself up with the thought of walking through that front door, pushing open my bedroom door, and finding a Barbie dreamhouse all wrapped up in a perfect, sparkling pink bow. I just thought that such a grandiose gesture would change everything for me. It would mean that the tides had turned in my favor, and that maybe I could have a happy ending of my very own.
Much to my dismay, said dreamhouse never appeared. I don’t know what I would have actually done with it if it had, (what do you do with one if you don’t have any barbies?!?!?), but the hope that it would pushed me onward for years.
Now that I am well into my thirties, with my own family, that Barbie dreamhouse has taken on a new significance. My husband is all too aware of these stories, and has been determined to figure out what that damned dreamhouse would be for me. Whenever we’ve experienced some amazing moment, or he’s given me what he’s known is the perfect ‘me’ present, my husband’s first question continues to be, “was that your Barbie dreamhouse?”
What I’ve finally realized is that with this blog, I’ve given myself what I was always looking for from someone else. This is my Barbie dreamhouse. All wrapped up in a sparkly, albeit, imperfect, amazing bow of love.