Family

Why I’m still a Barbie girl

boudicasroarLeave a comment

It’s Christmas 1985 and I’m hiding under the kitchen table. I’m on a festive ‘snoop’ mission. My parents are terse talking about “Wrapping the bloody Barbie van!”

My heart beats at the anticipation of it. The pièce de résistance of our sister’s Santa list. The fantasy gift of mid 80’s schoolgirls – the outfits, the glam, the moulded plastic bliss.

Flash forward (nearly) 40 years later and I’m watching the end of the Barbie movie in a draughty Devon cinema. Whilst my 10 year old son is ready for the off, I’ve tears in my eyes.

This surprises me. It’s less to do with nostalgia (I’ve no clue what happened to my Barbie collection) but more to do with a cinematic stirring of middle aged heart and mind.

I was banking on it being an above par chick flick. Reviews of the release from indie darlings, Gerwig and Baumbach, had stoked right wing ire in a pleasing way.

As we waited in line, I chortled to see teenies in tutus queuing for a quirky polemic on gender stereotypes, the patriarchy and empty consumerist lives.

And it started like a knickerbocker glory dream of a world. As Barbie woke to a picture perfect day the sea of west country mummies cooed at their charges.

As the screen glowed with Margot Robbie’s megawatt smile I felt my 9 year old self revive on a wave of fun. This was a world where women ‘rule’ and Ken’s ‘crave.’

But as my tweenager squirmed and I snuck Maltesers (Sorry darling – but they’re “lighter than ordinary chocolate”) the celluloid mood changed.

Barbie got sad. Barbie was lost. Barbie started to question EVERYTHING. Defeated she goes in search of the sage but scorned Weird Barbie (played by the awesome Kate McKinnon).

This encounter sets Barbie on a mission through the portal to the ‘real world.’ As she drives into the fake sunset, Ken tags along for the ride. And guess what they find – the real world falls short.

On Earth, women are ground down whilst the men rise high. This is when America Ferrera’s Gloria steals the best speech (snippet below) about society’s patriarchal pressures,

“Always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

Gloria, The Barbie Movie 2023

As a Mattel employee, working for Will Ferrell’s chauvinistic CEO, Gloria lays bare the reality of women’s Earth lot v the pie in the sky Barbie world.

But Ken is newly inspired by this ‘men rule’ reality. Returning home he flips Barbie’s pink paradise on its head. Suddenly the girls are catering to the Ken’s every whim.

As Barbie and Gloria buddy up to ‘save the day’ cliches abound. But overall, it was an enjoyable, thought popping ride.

For me, the film delivers a message (for girls and boys) of how, in our pursuit of Insta perfect lives, we’ve lost our way.

Whilst we’ve been distracted by looking good, hooking up and ladder climbing, we’ve been passing up on real, authentic life experiences.

In the end, the message that resonated most is that ‘Weird Barbie,’ with all her idiosyncrasies, is the kinda chick you want to listen to. These mavericks are the life guides that can help us make sense of this crazy world.

“Certainly, there’s a lot of passion. My hope for the movie is that it’s an invitation for everybody to be part of the party and let go of the things that aren’t necessarily serving us as either women or men.”

Greta Gerwig, Director, The Barbie Movie 2023

The last Santa Christmas

boudicasroar2 Comments

I think he’s rumbled us – our 8 year old super sleuth. His heart yearns for Santa but his head is full of doubts.

Its Christmas Day eve – I’m in the hallway delaying the dogs last pee. I shiver at the sight of frosty windscreens. I hear him quizzing upstairs, “it’s just you and mum isn’t it?” The dad’s reply is swift and sure but can it persuade the son?

The debunking of Santa is heartbreaking for every child. I was in the first year of Heavitree Middle – a smirking cad burst my festive bubble. I remember feeling gutted at first; it was wondrous while it lasted.

There’s a loss of innocence when the myth explodes. I ponder this as the dog tugs me across grass. Suddenly I feel sad – like the too blue lights twinkling from trees. The years go fast my boy is growing.

I wonder if I’ve savoured these Santa years enough. The joy of hanging stockings – of charting his sleigh across the globe. Guiltily I fear I haven’t. Too eager to get back to my book or the mindless scrolling of the phone.

In that moment I am sad at my complacency. But it’s no use – I’ve done my best. I can’t go back or freeze time. My boy with a quick mind and quicker feet won’t stop still.

He’s already straining at the reins. It is not my job to hold him fast. I am here to help him grow – to find himself. As much as we’d like to keep our children small they are preparing to fly from the off.

Losing Santa doesn’t mean magic is over. Even as adults we seek wonder – the tingle of anticipation. Whether waiting for a film to start or the first bars of a familiar song – nostalgia wraps us like a still warm bed.

But this is likely the last Santa Christmas. Our junior detective has sprung our con. The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy stand anxiously by. As we box the decs and stockings I shall shed a little tear. But we’ll always make room for magic – for a little sparkle turns a grey day bright.

The forest is my happy place

boudicasroar3 Comments

As I walk through the forest I feel myself unfurl. The path is strewn with pine cones – I pick one up, press it to my palm.

Ahead, my son hollers as he spars invisible knights. The dog plods by my side, nosing the leaves for something edible. He’s always hungry, unfazed by old age spread.

I’m hungry too but not for food. It’s the green I crave. I synch my breath with my tread; my lungs fill with loamy air. It’s as if the forest heals. The trees reach to me, like the arms of a mother.

These days I’m tightly wound. I bid myself to relax. Yet the months that lie behind have taken their toll. I move with a coil inside me. My husband watches, he knows the signs – the anxious tick.

Rain falls through the forest leaves. We are in no rush. Instead we turn our faces upwards. My son opens his mouth to catch a taste: “God is crying mummy.” I’m not sure where this religion comes from. I am a heathen, still unchristened at 44.

We come to a clearing and standing stones – a Druid’s dell. We move in between granite columns and altar. It is a spiritual place. We sit a while, taking in the ancient view.

Then we discover the plaque – it is a folly built for wealthy men. Maybe the ‘sirs’ wore robes and prayed to the moon. We imagine them there, in the fading light.

No matter, it is still magical. We are happy that we found this place. Damp discoverers, we trudge back to the car. I still hold the pine cone in my hand. My lungs still full of forest air, my heart is happy.

The yearning for home

boudicasroarLeave a comment

One of my favourite words is nostalgia. Apart from the way it rolls off the tongue, its meaning moves me. Gifted to us by the Greeks, it’s no accident that it is born from the words nostos (return home) and algos (pain).

This longing for home, for past times and loved ones, has never been stronger than this year. This strange, topsy turvy year, which has ripped the rug from under us. Who knew, when we toasted the first of January, our resolutions would unravel before the Easter Bunny came.

Suddenly, we were hemmed within four walls, if we were lucky to have a place to be. Coronavirus, that peculiar word, filled our ears and mouths. When we should’ve been planning for holidays, we were watching for symptoms.

But, harder than than the cabin fever, the home-school and zoom fatigue, was the separation. The inability to go to people and places that made you feel whole. As you pine, Boris says “stay put!”

The weeks turn into months. As you struggle with home-work-school-work de ja vu, you start to remember. You revisit the unlikeliest memories; nostalgia sweeps you up.

You are walking home from Ladysmith School, for macaroni with a crispy top. You are listening to your mother sing, her voice loops in the air. You are riding on your father’s shoulders, it is green all around. You are tracing the curves of an old violin, its head is a handsome lion. You wash potatoes in the sink with granny, she smells of soap. You dance with your sister, the fire dances too.

Memories flood you like a wave, pulling tears from inside. The emotion is bittersweet, like sherbet, sucked on a journey home. There is pain in the return, yet it reminds you who you are.

Back in the corona cabin, you hanker for a hug, from those that have known you forever. Instead, you are forced to wait, retracing the memory groove. These roots are stronger in middle age. Your 40 something heart, yearning for that Devon air, the red earth beneath your feet.

Then, a voice pulls you back, a holler from downstairs, “Mummy, I’m hungry!” You shake yourself present, return to the now, to beans on toast and cartoons, the dog snoring beside you.