`They do not stink!” my 4-year-old daughter exclaimed, stamping her foot down defiantly.
“I didn’t say stink . . . I said “extinct.” Dinosaurs are extinct . . . they don’t exist in real life anymore. So we can’t have a pet Tyrannosaurus Rex.” Not that we would even if they were still around, I thought. Imagine cleaning up the yard after one of those.
She stewed for a second, unsure how to win this particular fight and then, resorting to the debate rules for 4-year-olds, stubbornly declared: “Well, I still want one anyway.”
And I had purchased many. Plastic ones. Stuffed ones. Dinosaur poles and games. Dinosaur videotapes and coloring books. She slept with them, occasionally rolling over on their pointed claws or plated tails in the middle of the night. But she didn’t seem to mind. And she played endlessly and happily with her mismatched collection until I began my obsession. I mean, shouldn’t she play with dolls?
“Of course she should,” hissed my neighbor, the mother of three little girls, ironically all dressed in pink today. As they rocked and fed their babies quietly in the corner, my daughter’s toys were roaring and devouring each other. We had a house full of dollies and baby accessories too — the cradles and high chairs and tea sets that my little girl was supposed to love. She even had a 4-foot doll house with complete rooms of furniture and a minivan. Currently it was occupied by five dinosaurs and their pet pterodactyl.
So I began pushing the doll thing. Wouldn’t she like to take one of her babies for a ride in her stroller on this glorious fall day? “Great idea, mom,” she squealed, bolting to her room and returning with stuffed stegosaurus safely strapped in her doll stroller.
And then, looking through the Sunday ads, I came across (I’m not kidding, folks) Paleontologist Barbie. I was ecstatic. And though I’d lectured my peers and promised my mother that I would not let my child do the Barbie thing until she was at least 6, I swallowed my pride and hoped that Paleontologist Barbie would be the crossover I was looking for. She was smart and adventurous. She came with some bones, a pickax, a map and a really short safari-looking outfit. My daughter was thrilled.
I’d done it, I proudly proclaimed to my neighbor on the phone as my daughter danced upstairs to introduce her new toy to her dino menagerie. My victory, however, was short-lived. I found Barbie, several days later, left behind on a dig between the couch cushions. Her bones and pickax, however, had found a revered spot in the dinosaur cave under my daughter’s pillowcase.
I rescued Barbie from the dusty trenches and picked a Cheerio out of her long blond hair, making a mental note that a paleontologist would have a really hard time with all that hair on a dig. At my feet, the quiet buzz of my daughter playing happily with her collection of dino friends caught my attention.
“Where have you been, Chomper?!” she scolded. “I was so worried. Don’t ever run away again.” Was that a maternal lilt in her voice?
“OK Mommy. I love you.” The mommy and baby dinosaurs embraced and kissed and lovingly stroked each other’s poisonous spiky tails.
She was playing dolls. And practicing the nurturing roles that I hope she’ll someday act out in real life, with her real family. That day, I uncovered my daughter’s natural instincts and some old relics of my own. The idea that I tried to pressure her to play within some stereotype was, well, petrifying.
That night, as I tucked Paleontologist Barbie away in a drawer for another time, I was thankful that my daughter loved dinosaurs. And thankful that today, there’s a Paleontologist Barbie. And thankful that tomorrow my neighbor and her prehistoric expectations for my daughter were going to Florida for a vacation. Dinosaurs are scary, but Stone Age assumptions about the roles of our daughters are much more dangerous. At least the dinosaurs aren’t real.
