Summer of Barbie

I loved, loved my Barbie. Santa brought her to me when I was seven. When I opened the box of clothes that came with her, my mom explained that she had written to Santa and proposed a deal: if he would bring Barbie, she would make the clothes. My mom, the daughter of a dressmaker, had expert sewing skills of her own. She knew I’d recognize the leftover fabrics she used to make Barbie’s clothes, so she spun this little tale to present alongside the handmade outfits.

“You made a deal with Santa??” I was impressed by this ingenuity.

The clothes were exquisite. I still have them, and secretly feel they should be in some Barbie museum. A fitted coat with fur collar and cuffs; a pair of knitted ski pants with a matching woven turtleneck and two warm, coordinating hats. My favorite is a delicate, crocheted angora dress with a grosgrain ribbon belt, threaded through the waist and secured with a pearl button.

I played with Barbie constantly. Eventually I had to appropriate my sister’s Barbie, who was untouched and in dire need of my abilities as a stylist. My mom continued to sew and knit clothes for them. The following Christmas, Barbie’s dream house arrived.

Did Barbie mess with my body image? Probably. Was she alone in her whiteness for 21 years before a Barbie of color came in 1980? That’s what the NY Times just reported.

My mother’s and my relationship had its ups and downs over the years. She’s long gone now, and I miss her. But the “Summer of Barbie” has brought that time with her back to me. The tiny doll clothes, the story about Santa, the surge of a memory and reminder of how loved I was.

Photos by Annette Litle; annettelitlesf.com