A Piece of My Mind Section Editor: Roxanne
K. Young, Associate Editor.
It is an orange October afternoon and I am wearing my new corduroy pants.
I hop off the school bus, weary after another trying day of third grade. The
shiny red door of our house beckons me. Come in, eat cookies,
here it is safe. The housekeeper opens up, and my sister and I rush
in. We heave our backpacks into a corner and make a beeline for the kitchen.
After our snack, sweatshirts comfortably sprinkled with crumbs, we scamper
upstairs, hands and feet grasping at the runner so as to propel ourselves
upward even faster. We would take off like little helicopters if we could.
We are headed to the playroom, where our growing collection of Barbie dolls
awaits us. As we walk along I listen to the sound of my corduroy pants. Swip, swop, swip, swop. It is a good sound. In fact, it
is so interesting that I decide to walk back and forth across the hall a few
more times, just to hear it. Swip, swop, swip, swop.
Amy is standing by the door to the playroom. "Come on, it's time for the wedding!"
she urges. It's always time for the wedding. More than anything else, our
Barbies like to get married. That and have car crashes. Then we can play hospital,
and everyone gets better, except for the one whose leg fell off, but Daddy
can fix her in a pinch. He is a doctor so he can fix anybody. Swip, swop, swip, swop. I've decided to stop pacing and join my sister
in the playroom. I can listen to my pants later. We fling ourselves down on
the linoleum floor, strewn with dolls and doll clothes, and lose ourselves
in the bright realm of our imagination.
Markowitz JA. Cord. JAMA. 2002;287(14):1773–1774. doi:10.1001/jama.287.14.1773
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