For a while, it was Barbie. All Barbie, all the time. Barbie Volkswagen Beetle. Barbie bike. Barbie camper. One birthday, she got five, six Barbies, perhaps more. Like I said, all Barbie. So intense was her obsession that she even saved up all the money she got from grandparents and parents to buy a Barbie bike.

But interests change. Girls grow up. And soon enough the Girl informed us that we could pack away the Barbie camper. “I never play with it,” she explained. It sat at the base of her bed, taking up valuable space. So back in the box — honestly, it ever left, for the box was its garage — and down to the basement.

Eventually, all the Barbies and paraphernalia ended up downstairs.

Fast forward a few months. Our church’s annual rummage sale — An Angel’s Attic it’s called — was approaching, and K was deciding what to sell. The subject of toys came up.

“You can sell all my Barbie stuff,” the Girl suggested casually one evening. There was of course the question of who gets the proceeds, for the church gets thirty percent of donated goods while seventy percent goes back to the owner.

Once it became clear that she would get some of the money, she was all for it. And so this morning, while the Girl was off with a friend at the local science center, K gathered all the Barbie plastic and a number of other items and arranged them on the bed.

“Go up and see if you’re okay with selling everything on the bed,” K instructed when the Girl when she arrived home. She bounded up the stairs and returned shortly.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

But not so fine with me: as expected, she’s growing up faster than I was ever prepared to accept.