So my baby girl is three now. She REALLY enjoyed her birthday party. Even though it was just a small family gathering, she was the center of attention so she ate it up. We got her Barbies. Her first Barbies. When we went shopping for them, I wasn’t sure if she was old enough to appreciate Barbie yet. I wondered if maybe we should wait until next year. Or Christmas. But OH MY GOD she loves them. No, I mean she really LOOOOVES them.
I know the picture doesn’t do it justice, but keep in mind that this was their very first meeting. They were still in the awkward early stages of their friendship. They hadn’t yet had the opportunity to stay up until 2am doing each other’s hair and giggling about boys. I mean, come on, that was two days ago. Now they are total BFFs.
We also got her a Barbie car. Big D is all over that. And the wife’s sister got her a Barbie and a Ken. Poor Ken. He’s already being neglected. He just lies in the corner with his Hawaiian shirt and stiff disgusting hair. Apparently, Ken doesn’t own a pair of shoes. Not even flip flops. I never realized Ken was so–what’s the word I’m looking for–homeless.
Barbie, on the other hand, is a great role model. If you ignore the fact that most of her outfits look like they were specifically made to be marketed under the new line of Crack Whore Barbies, she’s a model citizen. (Now that I think about it, maybe that’s how she manages all those careers–crack. Not only does it cut out the need for sleep, I bet she couldn’t sleep even if she tried.) Nevertheless, she’s got Smella preaching the girl power gospel. Tonight while I was giving her a bath, she looked up at me and declared, “I not a baby. I’m a gale.”
Well then, you go, gale.