Throw in the Barbie

On Saturday morning I walked into my daughter's room and nearly collapsed into a heap of nervous terror because every piece of clothing that she owned was on the floor, in a heap of nervous terror of its own. She told me that she was organizing her outfits. I have experience with this type of organization. Everything gets dumped into an enormous pile. Then three pieces get Gap-folded and then an unprecedented exhaustion/depression/paralysis sets in and suddenly, it seems easier to relocate than to finish the organization. So when I walked into her room, I saw the writing on the wall. And I don't mean the "Zac Effron is dumb" that she'd scribbled in the corner.

And yet, within an hour, everything was sorted, folded and put away. I was super-impressed. And then she brought out this enormous box of rejection--Barbies in various stages of undress as well as some Madeline dolls. We seem to have lost the nun, Miss Clavel, but a few months after we got her, she was Always Naked anyway. Not so holy. Or maybe extremely. So, I'm left with a Barbie box. It's weird to know that my daughter will never play with dolls again, that she's ready to let them go. And that I have to find some poor saps to unload them on.