Strawberry Shortcake - She is just a fond memory...

   I had this little doll when I was around 7 or 8 called Strawberry Shortcake. She was this cute little collectable toy with red hair, a starched-white pinafore, strawberry-patterned bloomers and a funny little bonnet. But the most notable thing about her was the fact that if you took a good sniff of her head, she smelled of sweet, luscious strawberries. Yum!! 

   Oh! And did I mention that she had yummy friends? There was another doll that smelled just like apricots and one that was scented with peaches and cream, and I'm pretty sure there was a sister that wore the scent of zesty blueberries, too. I loved these dolls - mostly because they also had the kind of hair your could comb, and you could even wash them without taking away their lovely scents (which is a huge bonus when you are OCD!) But the very best part of all was the fact that they were very innocent and silly, just the way childhood should be.

   So you can imagine my sadness when earlier this week, USA Today revealed that the makers of this classic toy felt the need to "revamp" Strawberry Shortcake to make her more "relevant" to today's young girl. The new and improved Strawberry Shortcake now has a thiner face, longer, more flowing hair, and a more realistic girl-like body. Oh, and did I mention that she also has painted lips and no awkward freckles on her nose?

   I know it's ridiculous, but as I read more about this new, more modern version of one of my childhood favs, I actually felt a sense of sorrow. Why isn't the old version good enough for the new youth of America? Is the doll that inspired me so much that I still remember her at age 36 not good enough for the child of today? Why isn't something innocent relevant to childhood anymore?

   As a younger sister, I used to find myself wishing that I could be in stride with the things my sister did. (In fact, I was recently thinking of how badly I wanted to wear my sister's training bra when my mother finally decided the time had come to get my sister's boobs under control. I think I even remember sitting outside her locked bedroom door, begging her to let me wear one of her tiny training bras - specifically the one with the tennis racket details sewn right into the center - to school the next day.) For my mom and me, it was a constant battle to keep my little mind where it needed to be so I could enjoy being Sonja at every age.

  And, as is the classic case when it comes to my mom, she used to say something poignant and pithy to me during those times when I was a puddle outside my sister's room: Sonja, you can always grow up, but you can't grow down.

   She was right. You can't go back into a time of innocence and blissful ignorance once you start to see too much. When the things you are exposed to rob you of the refreshing freedom of not knowing or fully understanding the cruel realities of the world around you, the layers of happiness start to pull away. When you enter into a time and place where a toy has to be "relevant" to an adult perception of what's important in a young girl's world, there goes childhood.

   So tonight as I post this long awaited entry, I want to send a shout out to my mom, the late Diana Jean Bentley. Thanks for holding onto my youth for me, and for whispering truth in my ear. Thanks for giving me a childhood where a dolly in bloomers and a bonnet inspired me to enjoy my time of innocence.