Dear Barbie,
Breaking up is never easy, and saying goodbye to you is especially hard. As I closed the Rubber Maid lid on your storage box for the last time, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I’m really going to miss you.
But please don’t think it’s your fault our nearly decade-long adventure has come to an end. It’s not you—or even me, although I certainly grumbled about the clothing chaos you left behind and the Dream House that turned into a disaster zone. With soccer practices, piano lessons, and real-life horseback riding, we just don’t have the time to devote to our fun anymore. We don’t even take baths anymore, which used to be our special time together.
And I want you to know this isn’t about your looks, despite the flak you’ve caught over the years. I have friends with stunning figures, perfect hair, and flawless makeup. They’re athletes, volunteers, and all-around amazing women. They embody strength and positivity—much like you.
I never expected you to be a role model for body image; that’s my gig, and I think I’m doing alright. Your role was to ignite the imagination of my girls, and you did just that. You’ve helped them run veterinary clinics, host fashion shows, and even embark on adventures like piloting planes to Disney. Each day with you was filled with creativity and laughter.
And not once did you complain. Not when you were racing down the stairs in a Corvette with Cinderella, not after that unfortunate haircut, and certainly not when you lost a foot in a freak accident involving a visiting dog. You always showed up with a smile and an eagerness to play.
Life has thrown you some curveballs too. You weathered a public divorce, joined the military, and faced harsh criticism—yet you’ve faced it all with grace.
But I’m afraid we’ve reached a turning point. Little girls grow up, and it’s time to move on. I’ve already sold the Dream House (at a loss, sadly), listed the car, yacht, and plane on Craig’s List, and sent your friends—Skipper, the Disney Barbies, and those other brunette girls—off to Goodwill. I even found a new home for the Barbie jeep and scooter.
Thank you for everything. Thank you for showing my kids that a ball gown can go with cowboy boots and for embracing whatever story they created for you. Your outfits may be a little risqué, and your heels sky-high, but you were always there to be whoever my kids wanted, whether they fancied themselves a soccer player or a princess. I’m relieved we skipped your drag queen phase, but even that might have been a blast.
Although you’ll be tucked away in the attic for now, your memory will always be alive in our hearts. I hope that one day—if I’m lucky—you’ll return to us when my daughters have daughters of their own. I’d be thrilled to welcome you back with open arms, perhaps to a new eco-friendly Dream House.
You’ve been more than just a doll. You were a gateway to imagination and creativity in our home, and you did your job beautifully.
Farewell, Barbie. Until we meet again.
Love,
Me
P.S. I’m really glad you never took Ken back; he always seemed a bit like he was riding your coattails. And seriously, no one’s hair looks that perfect all the time.
For more insights on home insemination, check out this excellent resource. If you’re interested in exploring kits for artificial insemination, make sure to visit this page for valuable information. And don’t forget to check out our terms and conditions for more details.
Summary:
In a heartfelt letter, Jessica bids farewell to Barbie after nearly a decade of imaginative play. She reflects on the joy Barbie brought to her daughters, emphasizing that the decision to part ways isn’t due to Barbie’s appearance or any shortcomings but rather a natural progression as children grow up. Jessica expresses gratitude for the adventures Barbie facilitated and hopes to welcome her back in the future.