Yes, I care.
"Mama, Barbie just got back from vacation, and do you know what Ken did while she was gone?"
Work beckons on the computer screen, money that has to be made, tutorials that have to be written, auctions that have to be publicized.
"Mama, do you want to know what Ken did?"
Nearby lies the novel I haven't had time to start reading, and with it the wistful dream of lying curled in a steaming tub of bubbles with nothing but a fictional detective for company.
I'm not really a Barbie-and-Ken kind of lady.
But I am definitely Mama, and I like it that way. I look at my daughter's shining eyes, at her dolls, at the tiny figure that will so soon blossom into womanhood, and I know . . . and, yes, I do care, and yes, I do want to know what Ken did.
"See, he was going to climb the mountain, but he couldn't, because the dragon was on top, and so he snuck around behind the forest through the caves, and he had to be wearing the blue shirt to hide because it's darker, so he had to change out of the purple one before he could go..."
And I listen, and my mind floats away with her, connected, not only to the dragon-slash-tabbycat perched menacingly atop the mountain-slash-couch, but to the castles of my girlhood, to the fantasies of my daughter's fascinating mind. I listen, and she sees I'm listening, and she grows more animated, more thrilled, because what Ken did really is more important than the tutorial I'm writing at the computer.
You see, she knows I'll listen. She knows I really, honestly, deeply want to hear, to share it with her, to let my spirit soar when Ken and Barbie and Skipper and all the rest explore their world, and to put their heads back on when some mishap temporarily dissociates one bit of plastic from another.
And, someday, I hope, she'll still know I'll listen. She'll know I really, honestly, deeply want to hear, to share it with her, to let my spirit soar when Ken or Barbara or any of the rest explore her world with her, and to help her put her head back on straight when some mishap temporarily turns her universe on its ear.
I have this crazy theory, that by honestly caring now, by listening to how Ken got past the dragon-slash-tabbycat, I can teach my daughter that it's safe and desirable and obvious to come to me when more ominous dragons invade her life later.
In a few years, she'll confront sex, drugs, guns, friendship and betrayal.
In a few years, conversations will take an entirely different turn when she interrupts my work with, "Mama, do you want to know what Ken did?"
In a few years, it will be too late to convince her that I really do want to listen.
So yes, Danica, I care. What did Ken do?
3:29 p.m., Saturday, April 29, 2000
Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
E-mail me at Weavre@graffiti.net