Tag Archives: princess

Emergency Doctors Here: Barbie Hospital


Lately, we play Barbies. Then we eat. Then we play Barbies. So you might see something of a Barbie “series” on this blog.

I am sorry.

But sometimes, Sally’s Barbies do some interesting things. This week, Mr. Embee and I had to purchase a new microwave. It came in a huge box, so naturally: BARBIE HOSPITAL!  It’s a little bit ER, a little bit Grey’s Anatomy. And a little bit like a mental ward. It’s fabulous.

Things you should know before your visit to Barbie Hospital:

Doctors must stay with their patients at all times.

You will come to the hospital with broken bones. Otherwise, slap a Band-aid on it and go home, wuss.

Your boyfriend may visit you naked.

As the sign clearly notes, visitors will bring their own chairs.

Medicine will be provided. Lots of it.

Please do not be concerned that your neurosurgeon is Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.

Our dentistry department (Charlotte from The Princess and the Frog) and pediatric physician (Astronaut Barbie) are often without patients. They are facing lay-offs.

Our doctors have a 100 percent success rate of finding illnesses you didn’t come in for. Broken arm? Holy cow, you also have a potentially fatal sneezing disease!

Any artistic contributions to hospital design by Mommy will go unappreciated. Dude, OBSERVE the awesome first aid selection and lollipop jar. How can you not acknowledge my talent?

Our pediatrician may need to leave during your appointment to travel to the moon.

We are the leading hospital in treatment of Barbie roof-jumping injuries and Chronic Villain’s Disease, in which one’s bad guy-induced illness shifts to various body parts and is utterly incurable. CVD claims hundreds of Barbies every year. Be the cure. Donate to Barbie Hospital.

In accordance with hospital policy, your naked boyfriend should walk you home. Because he doesn’t have a license. …I just print the rules, I don’t make ’em.

A Royal(ish) Wedding


Sally dug the royal wedding. What wasn’t to love? Beautiful people, military uniforms, designer dresses, hats that should have toppled several women over. Naturally, Sally then spent a good chunk of wedding day executing her own version of the royal nuptials.

Throngs of onlookers awaited a glimpse of the happy prince and princess.

The bride wore a Kleenex veil and a dress by Mattel. Her necklace is genuine China-made plastic. The groom wore a look of vague detachment.

The pool party reception (hmmm, the queen in a bikini…) ended with an exuberant–and naked–bride scaling the castle’s tallest tower. Her new husband climbed up to rescue her.

The newlyweds retired to a furnished castle built by the prince himself, where they promptly began planning a family. They are expecting their first daughter tomorrow. She will have bunk beds in her room. . . . As all princesses should.

Do Not Let Your Child Read This


This thing looks like the devil incarnate compared to my kid on Thanksgiving. Photo: Erik K Veland/Flickr

On Thanksgiving, Sally hit on the world’s most efficient way to get anything she wants. We were sitting at the dinner table, mashed potatoes quickly cooling, and my mom–the hostess–said “who would like to say grace?” This is the time we all look toward my brother (the golden child) and my youngest sister (The youngest, therefore the one who automatically gets all the crappy tasks). They both stalled just a hair too long, leaving Sally her spectacular window of opportunity.

Her hand went up, preschool style. “I can do it,” said the Who from Whoville. Everyone looked at her cheerfully. Except me. I looked at her like she might projectile vomit on the turkey. She has no idea what “grace” is — at our table before dinner we say things like “MOM! I still don’t have milk!” and “What IS this?! It smells disgusting!”

But she put her hands in her lap and gazed up at my mom, who we’ll call Nan, because we call her Nan. “I’m thankful for Nan.”

And I swear checkbooks came out to pay future college tuition bills. My dad went out to the garage and brought in the pony he’d been saving for a rainy day. My mom gave Sally an entire pie. They’re building her a castle for Christmas.

Seriously, the kid could have ANYTHING after a performance like that. So I tried it with Mr. Embee. All I got was a snort and “Did you give the cat his antibiotics yet?” Guess you’ve got to be a freaking ray of sunshine to pull it off.

**The next post on this blog will be my 100th. Woah. Stay tuned for some sort of prize for a lucky reader.

Interview with a 4 year old


What is the best thing about being 4?
Because teaching numbers every day is fun.

What can you do now that you couldn’t do when you were 3?
I can hang like a big kid. I can hanging with the monkey bars that don’t have anything with the other bar, the other one that you don’t have to climb on with the next one. That’s why, I can put my feet on those bars. And my hands too, and I can SWING my legs up there and then I can be like a big kid.

What is the hardest thing about being 4?
That I can’t catch leaves.

What do 4 year olds like to eat?
Salad.

Seriously? Do you like salad?
Yeah, now I like salad. But not with noodles.

How did you grow so big?
I ate lots of good healthy food and got lots of sleep, and ate healthy food and got lots of sleep!

What do 4 year olds play with?
Jessie [from Toy Story]. Like me. And Minnie Mouse. And even the princesses I have.

What do 4 year olds NOT play with?
Baby toys. Like chewing stuff that you can chew and biting stuff and squishing ones. That is not fun to play with. That means I’m giving them away.

What will you be when grow up?
Um, a doctor. Just two things, a work like you–the same work–and I’ll be a doctor too.

Will you also be an author? I noticed you recently wrote and illustrated The Little Boy Who Lived in the Forest.
Yes, I am an author. Did you ever see a 4 year old write a book before?
No, I never have.
Well, I DID write a book.
It’s fantastic.
It’s exquisite.

Ohhhhhkay. When is a person grown up?
Um, 17. 17 is great. 17 is a grown up?
Almost.
Yay! 19 years old and then you’ll be a grown up?
Yes, basically.
All right! I can’t wait to be 19. And be BIG BIG BIG.

What is your favorite game?
I don’t know. I don’t know what I have. Dominoes.

What kind of art is your favorite?
Doing pumpkins.

Favorite animal?
A monkey. And a rabbit.

If you could have any pet, what would it be?
A bunny rabbit.

We have cats. What’s the best thing about cats?
‘Cause you get to play with them and hug them.

What do 4-year-olds think about?
Good dreams. AND they dream about Christmas lights and dancing turkeys in their heads.

What is your favorite outfit?
This one.

What else should we know about 4 year olds?
Big kids really love playing with their toys, so much they want to hug them and sometimes they get ripped.

Anything else?
Everything. They love blue blankets and red blankets and every kind of blanket they have. And they love to cuddle them like this [squeeze]. . . . Where’s the remote control?

The Costume Catalogs


I thought about titling this post something about kids and porn, but then realized that might attract the wrong audience.

I Guess It Could Be Worse: Michael Costume

The Halloween catalogs have started arriving. You know, because we should start planning 90 days in advance. These catalogs have a special effect on children. Men have actual porn; women have Pottery Barn; and Sally? Sally has the Costume Express mailer.

This flimsy, 20-some page catalog has everything in it a kid could want. It’s dress-up nirvana. Specifically, it has costumes for every character Sally loves, no matter how obscure I once thought those characters to be. Strawberry Shortcake? Check. Daphne from Scooby Doo and the gang? Check. Seriously. A VIDIA FAIRY costume — where the heck was that when I needed it?!

So naturally, with all these options, Sally picks the one character I really don’t want her to be: Princess Peach from the Mario Bros. video games. Whom she has viewed on the television for a total of about 90 seconds.

Now, I’m not totally innocent here: I have allowed Sally and her dad to play the whole freaking game a bit of Super Mario Galaxy together, and much to my dismay in this regard, she is her father’s daughter. She loves it. She mostly watches him and gives him gaming advice. Pretty decent gaming advice. They call it father/daughter bonding time. I call it lazy but it does allow me to get laundry done . . . Still, I never thought our little secret would seep through to one of the most public displays of family life — the Halloween costume choice. The costume choice says a lot. One year my three siblings and I were all characters from Alice in Wonderland. Handmade by our mom. Adorable. Thematic. And a display of fine parenting. The toddlers who show up to trick-or-treat in blood-soaked gore costumes? I don’t like that. Nor do I like video game characters. I’m a costume elitist. There, I said it.

I’m pained about this partly because the Princess Peach costume is the lamest of the princess dresses, and partly because I can barely brush my teeth with my own hands, let alone make a costume, so whatever Sally has will be store-bought. But really I’m mostly disturbed because we live in a no-nitrates-hotdog-eating, no-TV-watching portion of the country and I’m going to get egged if people around here find out my preschooler plays video games! And let’s face it, this really is all about me.

I can see it now: “Why yes, I let my child rot her brain. I found she was requiring a lot of my time, and the video games keep her quiet. With any luck we’ll have her in full, obese gaming form by age 6! Hey, is that spit you just spit on me? I do hope it’s organic.”

So, though I feel a little guilty about it, I’m pressuring her to pick another costume. Like Jessie from Toy Story. She LOVES Jessie. Jessie is assertive, yet G-rated. It sends the right message. Sally’s a determined little sucker, though, and she won’t be easily swayed. May the best woman win. In the meantime, she’ll happily take her daily browse through “her magazine,” ooh-ing and ahh-ing at all the marvelous costume options.  It’s outright pornography, I tell you.

The Happiest Place on Earth


We went to Disneyland in April and for the past month I’ve been trying to get my head around the experience and find something to write about. Not for lack of material, mind you. My family loves Disney. We’re loyal patrons, frequently visiting Mickey’s hood. There’s a lot to say; it’s just that in most cases, someone has already said it. But then I looked through our pictures again and like a real CSI, I saw it. Once, twice, three times, oh golly–she does it every time she poses with a character not covered in fur.

It’s so obvious.

And so, I give you . . . the boob grab.


It happens in every single dingle picture with a princess or fairy, and we spent about 2/3 of our time meeting these, well, victimized women. Someone needs to tell Sally that it’s okay to enjoy the happiest place on Earth,  it’s just not okay to enjoy the happiest place on Earth.