I'm Not a Good Ken

Ed is still sick, which is a real hardship for me since K. expects me to play Barbie and Ken with her when Daddy is unavailable. My imaginative game playing skills have atrophied completely since my own childhood, and, even as a child, I didn't play with Barbies except as accessories for my plastic horses. Ed and K. play out interesting stories, in which Ken and Barbie (otherwise known as Emma) care for their many children or go on road trips (they have two cars), but I always draw a total blank when K. hands me Ken and tells me to play. When I am Ken, he tells Emma that he needs to go to the barbershop (his poofy surfer haircut looks like a two year old was at it with scissors) or that he has just got to have a long nap, at which K. informs me in no uncertain terms that I am Not Doing It Right, and I go and ask Ed if he is absolutely certain that he is too ill to be Ken (which one can do while slouched on the floor, if only one has any imagination). I am giving him lots of vitamin C and bucking up type comments.

So, I can't play Barbies, but I can bake. In fact, due to Ed's inability to read recipes (or just about any other sorts of directions), I am the Baking Parent. K. and I made oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies today, which K. pronounced quite satisfactory. Most parents wouldn't be all that excited about their child willingly eating a new cookie, but K. has so few foods she is willing to eat that I am pathetically pleased when she deigns to accept a new flavor, in this case, peanut butter. If we could now segue from peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to peanut butter sandwiches, I would be so happy!

We also told stories today. K. has a taste for romance, so, of course, we always have to have the story of how Mommy and Daddy met, married, and had their two incredibly adorable children. Then K. told me some stories, featuring girls whose names were all variations of Emma marrying boys with names like Gerald and Peter. I always thought that girls who talked about having been planning their weddings all their lives were exaggerating, 'cause it certainly wasn't something I ever gave any thought to until the occasion arose, but now that I have my own little wedding planner, I guess they weren't kidding. Fortunately, she is more focused on the number of children she will have (2 or 39) and the nice white house she will live in (with a room for her dear old mother, who will babysit), than on the wedding ceremony itself. After K.'s stories, I was supposed to tell a scary story, so I told the story of Bo and the Pound. This was almost too much scariness, what with Bo tragically losing his first home and coming within a hairsbreadth of execution at the pound ("people in Florida don't want big, hairy dogs, so if you want to look at him, you'd better come over quick!"), but K. felt better once we got to our happy ending, with the big, hairy dog living happily ever after with his new family. Bo felt better too, after K. "comforted" him (as if he'd been paying attention to our stories) with handfuls of dog treats.

We can't all be talented at Barbies, but K. is lucky to have parents with complementary talents. I can't take any credit for planning it, but aren't I lucky to be married to a man who will play dolls with his little girl?

** You can't really see how bad Ken's hair is in the picture because the worst parts are in the back. Believe me, though, he is not happy about his hair. You can see in the picture of K. and Bo part of what makes Bo such a fine dog. He is willing to be the pony when K.'s baby dolls want to go for a pony ride.