Barbie to the rescue (but don’t tell anyone)

My daughter got chicken pox…and I let her watch Barbie. Then my other daughter got it…and I let her watch Barbie, too. Then my 3-year-old son got it and, yes; he also watched it. By choice. I didn’t grant my 1-year-old viewing privileges when she contracted the dreaded pox (I just let her suffer) – apparently I do have a line. It’s thin but it’s there.

Now, Feminism; before you get your knickers in a knot and go all Susie Orbach on me, let me explain: it was the infernal itch. That pink shit didn’t help (Calamine, you faker) and the only thing to curb the scratch was Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse. Not My Little Pony, not Paw Patrol, not their favourite books, not their favourite movies. Not food, not music. Not even if I dressed up like the Mad Hatter and danced a jig like no other. But Barbie. Only Barbie. So I let them.

But why Barbie (and her weirdo dreamhouse)? She’s entirely lame. I mean, bulimia, anorexia, self-harm, suicide…it’s all on Barbie, right? Exactly. What sane mother would subject her sons and daughters to endless episodes of Barbie, with her wispy waist, brittle wrists and half-baked ass? It’s a life RUINER!

Except, well, it’s actually pretty funny. (OK – so now you can knot your knickers and fling Orbach at my head). I mean, Barbie’s sister Chelsea likes speed metal. SPEED METAL. This is revolutionary!

The animation is totally ‘Barbie’ (aka uninspired) but it’s soaked with satire; sort of like Gossip Girl but made on the computer. I kinda love it. (But don’t tell anyone. Thanks.)

Plus, my children won’t have pox scars.

Check out Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse on Netflix.