The Barbie Wars

By Tom G. Reeves 

            I have twin daughters.

            They are five.

            They are insane.

            My daughters like plastic. Preferably Barbie shaped, though they will settle for anything plastic as long as it's small enough to be stepped on by Daddy in the morning and sharp enough to make him dance funny and talk loud. But I can live with that. My real problem is the accursed packaging these toys come in.

            Take Barbie Swan Lake, for instance.

            There she is, standing pretty as you please in her colorful pink and blue box with castles and flowers and everything that Mattel psychiatrists could conceive of that might appeal to young female homo sapiens. Yes, things were fine -- until my children wanted to take the doll out of the box. At first I thought, Okay, piece of cake. Open the box, shake Barbie loose, and they are off and playing.

            I know.

            I'm an idiot.

            But don't worry, that halcyon moment of paternal naiveté is gone forever.

            Barbie doesn't just come out of her box. Nor do her slippers, her dress or any of her other sundries. No, these items are thoughtfully cemented to the box itself.

            Now, I like a good puzzle as much as the next guy, but toy makers must feel that I deserve a challenge because they anchor that fiendish little princess to her box with twisted REBAR. I turn the box over, and my arthritic fingers work the wire for a good twenty minutes trying to release just one ankle. Mind you, I had no signs of joint pain when I started the project, which just convinces me that the leading cause of rheumatoid arthritis isn't old age -- it's children's packaging.

            After the first ankle is released, my thumb has gone numb and my ring finger is twitching suspiciously, but I'm making progress. Only one hundred and seven more wires to go!

            After thirty minutes, I give up on the second ankle, reach for the nearest weapon -- a steak knife -- and hack off the doll's foot. My daughters look at me in horror, but I tell them it's the only way to save Barbie from dying of gangrene.

            They seem skeptical.

            I decide to attack the remaining wires with the knife and do have some limited success before losing the serration on my blade. But four hours later, Barbie's arms are free! And the other good news is -- I'm so numb, I can no longer feel the shooting pains in my left arm! However, my daughters' incessant demands to play with their new Barbie won't be denied by something as mundane as Daddy's little heart attack, so I press on.

            Next, I'll tackle her head.

            I actually manage to untwist the head wire from the back of the box with minimal personal injury, but can't for the life of me figure out how to free the stupid wire from her skull! I take the last pointy edge of the knife and saw and chop at her hair to see where the wire is stuck, but no luck. I chip down to her plastic noggin, but no amount of digging and prying will budge the steadfast cable. I do manage to cut through a nearly invisible string, which I'm rather proud of, until I realize it's the only thing keeping her princess crown attached. No problem. I pick up my trusty all-purpose stapler and secure the regal headband, albeit at a slightly odd angle.

            At this point I've had about enough. I'm not about to tackle that torso wire, which looks to be the mother of all twisty-ties, so I gnaw around the edges of the box as best I can. I'm somewhat successful, though a little nauseous after ingesting half a cardboard box.

            But finally, the moment has come. She's ready. I hand Barbie over to the girls, a tired but victorious smile on my ashen face. They look over their new doll, glance at each other, then drop Barbie as quickly as if she had some communicable disease and dash out of the room in tears.

            I'm not entirely sure why.

            I pick up Barbie to see if maybe there's something I've missed. Personally, I don't think she looks all that bad. Only one amputated foot. The wire sticking out of her half-shaved head looks kind of cool, like a twisted arrow or a Martian antenna maybe. And very little of my blood has stained her forehead under the cock-eyed crown. Heck, even the saliva-dampened edges of the cardboard box around her torso have already begun to dry. So what's the problem?

            I shake my head and shrug. Like I said, five-year-old girls are just insane.

This story first appeared in Twice the Love: Stories of Inspiration for Families with Twins, Multiples and Singletons, by Susan M. Heim. ©2007. Published by TWINS Magazine.