Move over, Barbie: Kirsten’s here ~ July 29, 1993

David Heiller

You can’t help but feel sorry for Barbie. The blonde one there in the rocking chair next to me. She’s lying face down like she’s crying. If she’s not, she should be.

Kirsten Larson has taken away her little girl.

Kirsten is new to our family. She has flaxen hair that came in a Swedish braid. Her eyes match my daughter's eyes: a light blue. (In fact some people think she bears a striking resemblance to me.) She has leather shoes, nice socks with no holes, pantalettes, a dress with an apron, and a bonnet.

Kirsten is famous. She has had books written about her. The first one is Meet Kirsten. It tells of her family’s trip to their new home in America in 1854, of their struggles as immigrants on a farm in Minnesota. Mollie has the book.

Malika and her Kirsten doll

My daughter, Mollie, put Kirsten in her back-pack on Sunday night, July 18, and we rode our bikes to the local ice cream store. As we were standing in line, a tiny little girl came up and stared wide-eyed at Kirsten, who was poking her head out of the pack.

They were eye level. I’m sure the little girl thought Kirsten was a real baby.

She’s not. She is a doll, complete with pioneer accessories and a family history. Mollie saved her allowance and birthday and Christmas money for 10 months to buy her.

My grumpy reaction at first was that Kirsten was too expensive and too commercial. After all, a real-life Kirsten didn't have an $80 doll in 1854. She had a rag doll at best, and they both had to walk barefoot through the snow, uphill both ways.

My wife pointed out that Kirsten is an educational, high quality toy. And even I have to admit that. When I pick Kirsten up, she feels almost like a real baby. Maybe I’ll end up playing with dolls yet.

And Mollie loves her. They can play together for hours on end. That’s almost as much fun for me watch as it is for Mollie.

This past Sunday night, Mollie packed for a weekend camping trip that we’re taking in a couple of weeks. For Mollie, at least half the fun of vacations is packing. I tried to talk her out of  packing two weeks in advance, but failed, as usual.

After half an hour she showed me what she had done. Along with her own suitcase and sleeping bag, she had packed a small bag for Kirsten, including a tiny doll.

A doll for a doll. You can’t get any more real than that.

Meanwhile, the Barbies, all five of them, have fallen on lonely days. They lay around face down on the rocking chair, or stuffed in a plastic bucket in the closet. Their hour-glass figures don’t measure up anymore. Kirsten looks like she’s been drinking milk and eating butter. The Barbies look like they throw up after every meal.

So I guess I’ll take Kirsten after all. I know Mollie has.