My first-grade friend Ashley Miller had the Barbie dream house. A three-story mansion. For a little girl living in a ranch, it was incredible. And I had to have it.
I asked for it for Christmas. I asked for it for my birthday.
My baby sister got one years later.
Instead, my homeless Barbies got to improvise. The cardboard cases of Girl Scout cookie boxes became the building blocks of some serious square footage. Our Barbie's homes would stretch in custom communes that covered my bed and bedroom floor. And each time it had a new look.
Flash forward 30 years, and my daughter tells me she wants Barbie dream house for her birthday.
But you already have a Barbie house your uncle bought you at Christmas, I remind her.
But it's not a dream house. It's small.
I sigh. The "starter home" tucked away in the corner truly hasn't seen much play time, and she's asking for an expansion.
So I tell her the story of a little girl, whose imagination, a little brother and a lot of cookies made for great memories of building Barbie mansions. Her eyes light up. "That's a great idea!" she says.
Here's hoping that her dreams create that "dream house" of her imagination. I can't wait to see what they bring.
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