Momlogic's Winter: Why the White House is my new Barbie mansion.

I must admit that playing with Barbies as a kid was at times rather -- confusing. Of course I loved combing their hair, purchasing Barbie accessory sets and getting her ready to go play tennis with Ken (who wasn't really Ken, but my brother's GI Joes) in their white Lamborghini.

Yet, as an African-American little girl, Barbie's body never looked like mine. Her hair didn't curl like mine. And black Barbie looked just like her white version, complete with blue eyes, straight hair and basically dipped in cocoa. I didn't see it then, but as an adult, I look around at dolls and still notice the difference between white dolls and ones who are supposed to represent women of color: the Bratz get to go shopping, Barbie aspires to be an astronaut.

However, at 27, I feel like a little kid with a life-size Barbie when I look at Michelle Obama. Of course, as a politically aware adult, I care about this witty lawyer's agenda and what she will do as the First Lady. But just like my Barbie childhood fantasy world, I am tempted to play out the First Family's life in the White House in my mind like a never ending game of Simms.

My mental playtime goes a little something like this: Should Michelle use a pressing comb today? Will flats or heels look better with that dress? No Barack, this china will be better for the White House. I'm so happy my new Barbie has a butt! I think a beagle would be best. In my virtual reality, Barack and Michelle will be playing Monopoly at Camp David, talk pillow talk at night and drink lemonade on the White House lawn at sunset. Sigh.

In light of the failed economy and unfinished wars, I know I shouldn't be thinking about such trivial things as Michelle's next outfit and butt size. BUT, for all the little girls (black, white, Asian and Latina) still playing with their dolls, I am glad that they have a flesh and blood Barbie fantasy to play with -- namely, a young black girl whose family told her she could do anything, who grows up to go to law school and marry a Ken who, instead of a souffle, doesn't mind a frozen meal, and who welcomes a woman who will give him an honest critique.

And P.S.: If you see a little boy running around in a couple of years named Barack Martin Luther, back off. It's my kid.

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