What Barbie just taught me about motherhood

I missed the genius behind “Barbie,” and the movie’s director, Greta Gerwig, the first time I saw it. I was in Palm Springs at the Sixth annual Physician Moms Group retreat, surrounded by 26 physician mothers like me. At first glance, the movie seemed to be about empowerment of women. Of course, I was sitting in a room filled with strong women. But, I saw the movie for a second time this past Sunday, with my mom and daughter, at the Historic Roxy Theatre in Bremerton. In truth, reimagining a world where women set the standards for society was just window dressing for the real message. Barbie is a love story: between a mother and her teenage daughter and between Barbie creator, Ruth Handler, and the legacy she left behind — the Barbie doll — to inspire every little girl’s dream for the future.

Actress America Ferrera plays Gloria, a stressedout working mom and Mattel employee struggling to connect with her cynical daughter, Sasha (played by Ariana Greenblatt.) Longing for simpler days when she and her daughter enjoyed each other’s company, Gloria pulls out Sasha’s Barbie dolls and begins playing with them to remember happier times. Gloria’s sadness about her awkward relationship with her daughter leads to “weird and dark and crazy” thoughts. In a twist of movie fantasy and fate, Gloria’s melancholy transfers to a Barbie living in Barbieland, who develops “irrepressible thoughts of death.” This negativity disrupts the perfection for

Barbies in Barbieland.

I am in that same awkward phase with my 11-yearold daughter right now. Once upon a time, I was her favorite person in the world. I miss her toothless grin, the quiet afternoons spent braiding her hair, and snuggling up with her to watch a movie. She is no longer that same little girl full of love and admiration for her mom. Everything seems different overnight. Her smile still brightens up my day, but she does not smile or laugh as often as she once did. Those grins have been replaced by scowls, harumphs, and grumpy moods. She constantly tells me I do not understand her, as if I were not once an 11-year-old girl myself. All the sudden, I am wholly deficient in many ways: how I dress, how I wear my hair and makeup, how I spend my time, and how I pretty much do anything.

This past weekend, my mom and I attended a fundraiser for my daughter’s ballet company. As I dressed for the evening, my daughter tried to convince me to change my hair, shoes, and jewelry. She was frustrated with me, that is, until my mom came down the stairs, dressed in head-to-toe-sequins. I thought my mom looked amazing. At 80. Wearing sequins. She totally owned it. But my daughter’s horror was apparent; those very same deficiencies that plague me, suddenly, extended to my mother too. When my mom told my daughter she did not care about her opinion and was not changing her outfit, I realized that this awkward stage between my daughter and I will not last forever. This too shall pass.

Probably the most surprising thing about the Barbie movie was the new insight it brought about the importance of my own mother through the eyes of Ruth Handler, Barbie’s creator — who is, figuratively, a ghost and