By Patrick Boyle
© The Gazette Newspapers
November 18, 2000

"No Barbies."

That announcement by my daughter one fall shocked the adults around her, but she felt it was time to make a statement. The approach of Christmas meant that grownups were shopping for gifts, and those grownups had to understand that Alyssa was now 10 - which was too old to play with Barbies.

We've all been there: deciding we were too old for our favorite toys, because they bored us, or because playing with them would invite mockery from our friends. I was warmed by Alyssa's coming of age, but worried that she was going too far.

Alyssa dumping Barbie was like Donald Trump outgrowing cash. Ever since we could remember, anyone seeking a gift for Alyssa headed straight for the Barbie aisle. Parent will recognize the invasion that comes when a child falls in love with a well-merchandised toy: our house was home to countless versions of Her Blondeness, spin-offs like little sister Skipper and a giant head named Totally Hair Barbie, board and computer games, accessories like pink furniture, a pink boat and a pink camper as big as our microwave, more outfits than my wife and I owned, and enough shoes to satisfy Imelda Marcos Barbie.

Then there was lucky Ken. He sat smiling in the middle of Barbieville - a section of Alyssa's bedroom floor where Barbies lounged round-the-clock on lawn furniture beside their camper, enjoying a perpetual picnic. Like most men, Ken owned only one outfit, which Alyssa lost; thus he hung out with the girls wearing a Kleenex toga. This is how he and the women joined us on vacations.

No more. With her polite announcement, Alyssa dismantled Barbieville. The residents went silently into plastic bags, then to the basement.

There they met Major Matt Mason.

Major Matt was one of the toys that defined my childhood, along with G.I. Joe and Hot Wheels. The major was a rubber doll who bent at the joints because he had wire where humans have bones. My first Major Matt got so much playtime with me that his wires snapped, rendering him catatonic. He served as elder adviser to more Major Matts, and to captains and lieutenants in red, blue and yellow space suits.

They explored the surfaces of my home with a battery-operated "lunar crawler," a space tank that shot a beam of light, plastic space sleds, inflatable tents, and a plane that looked like the Stealth Bomber but crashed more often. They fought enemies: a skinny green Martian who resembled the mean uncle in Lost in Space, and a giant robot with red light eyes.

At around Alyssa's age, I reached the awkward stage: too young to go to the moon, too old to play with rubber astronauts. So I stuffed the space crew in a box and shipped them to my basement.

They didn't stay. Every now and then I'd be rummaging around down there, perhaps hunting an errant ping pong ball, when my eyes would spot the box; it was decorated like space ship. Soon Major Matt's crew was upstairs exploring the living room again.

"Reliving your childhood?" mom would say. I knew I was too old for this and that if my friends caught me, I'd be toast. I could trust mom to keep mum. My fling with my old toys would last a day or two, and they'd return to the basement. I'd hold similar secret reunions with my G.I. Joes and Hot Wheels.

I told Alyssa about this after Barbie moved downstairs. She giggled at the picture of her adolescent dad dragging out old dolls and little cars. "You'll probably do the same thing with your Barbies," I said. "One day you'll just get the urge to play with them, even though you think you're too old."

That would be okay, I said. Playing with toys is like taking your imagination to the gym. Besides, doing make-believe with dolls is just a different version of what writers do in movies and books. My friend Mike and his son, Jesse, collect Batman figures and paraphernalia, and I know that Mike enjoys the hobby as much as Jesse does. One colleague told me that one bonus of having a daughter is that "I get to play with Barbies again."

Of course, I don't want a daughter who prefers chatting with dolls over people. But I hope Alyssa doesn't wait until she has children to break her Barbies out of their bags. One hopeful sign: thanks her brother, 10 years her junior, Alyssa discovered the fun of building things with Lincoln Logs.

The only problem is, now the three of us have to share them.