Judy Henry, thirty-two, is the single mother of Hannah Blair Henry, who is five. Judy is a surgical technician at a hospital, and the two live in a small southern town.

Oh, Lord, I'm so ashamed, but I cannot stand Barbie Dolls. My little half-sister had every Barbie thing imaginable, but I have always detested those dolls. I can't stand them. They're not real, they're prissy, they sit back with their large breasts, perfect hair, perfect wardrobes, and they make me mad. And wouldn't you know it, Hannah is completely hooked on them. At last count she had twenty-three Barbies, and just about everything else they sell: the big doll house, the carriage, the car, the walking horse, and about a million ball gowns.

So that's one thing I will not play with Hannah. I tried to play Barbies with her, I tried. But I found myself hanging the little clothes on the coat hangers and making the little beds, you know anal Barbie. But that was no fun. And then Hannah will want all twenty-three Barbies to participate and they all have names, and I'm sorry, I can't remember all their names.

When I used to play, I played with the Belle Barbie. She was my favorite because she wasn't the blond bimbo Barbie that all the rest of them seem to be. She has brown hair and brown eyes. She's even a little wider in the hips, and some of those gowns don't always fit her right.

When Hannah wants me to play, she'll say, "Mom, I'll let you be your favorite one." I know these dolls mean a lot to her-and I imagine it could be a good learning thing for her if I played more. I could make one of the Barbies say, "Oooh, well, that wasn't very nice. I think you hurt that one's feelings when you told her you hated her dress"-you know, like they do on TV. But when I get down to play, I'm so childish and immature about it. I instantly make them pick on each other or sing funny songs that irritate Hannah. I'll make one say, "Oh, no! Don't do that, don't put the baby in the oven!" And Hannah will say, "Mom! That's not how you play!" Then she becomes the adult in the situation, constantly chastising me, saying that Amy doesn't like to sit on the sofa and Beauty doesn't like to wear shorts. I don't know, I tried. I just don't think I'm a particularly Barbielike person.

Maybe it's because I'm so tall and big boned. At five feet eleven, I'm taller than the average man around here, and I've never felt really feminine. To this day, when I put on makeup and fix my hair, I feel like a kid playing dress up, always wondering if I've done it right.

Some people say having a baby makes them feel more womanly, but I didn't feel that way. I just felt larger. And it was scary having such a small thing dependent on me because I didn't know the right thing to do with her all of the time.

It was Hannah's father who got me to go to the childbirth classes when I was pregnant, and he was the one who was adamant that I breast-feed because he said it was natural and normal. I'm generally too inhibited and self-conscious for all that stuff. I mean, I was the one who left the room in birthing class during the birth part of the film.

It's funny, because her dad was a great influence on me during the pregnancy and her first few months. It's too bad that we can't combine our efforts and live together and do things for Hannah, but he just hasn't grown up. He likes to paint, and everything else is just to get by so he can do that.

We go through periods when he sees Hannah, and times when he doesn't. I try not to say derogatory things about him because he's a good guy, but on the other hand, I try to be as honest as possible. I let her know that he loves her and would like to spend time with her, but that Mommy and Daddy didn't get along because daddy didn't want to work and Mommy couldn't afford to pay for Daddy's paints and Hannah's diapers.

I've even paid for his gas and given him whatever money he needed just to get him here, but that's ridiculous. If he was any kind of a father, he'd come on his own.

So being a single mom doesn't seem like that much of a big deal to me. It's been that way from the start. I'm pretty good at it. I'm good at the providing part, making sure she has everything. I'm not so good at the patience part, the carving-out-time-just-for-Hannah part. When I come home from work I'm tired, and by the time I've fixed her something to eat, done the laundry, helped her do her homework, and gotten everything ready for the next day, it's bedtime. So there isn't much time for anything else.

Recently she said, "Every time I ask you to play, you tell me you're busy, and that we'll do it later." And I felt awful hearing that because it makes me question whether I've put too much emphasis on whether her clothes and the house are clean. Maybe it doesn't matter whether the carpet is vacuumed. If I'm sitting there playing cards with her, she'll turn out better than if she's playing alone while I'm cleaning the floor so she'll have a good spot to play in. I've loosened up though. I can actually go to sleep at night knowing that Barbie Dolls cover my living room floor.

I guess the best thing about having Hannah is that she helps me see the world through a child's eyes. I remember when I was small, it seemed that the things that made the world right were so totally simple-like the feeling of the sun shining on my face, or how cold and sweet an ice cream tasted, or how great it was to reach into a berry bush and cram berries into my mouth. This is all before I was old enough to think, "Gee, I really should have washed those berries," or "I can't eat that ice cream because it's fattening." When you're a kid everything is just there, you take it, and it's great.

So Hannah gives me a chance to feel that freedom again, and she catches me when I'm caught up in the petty, materialist rush that I think everybody's lives have become nowadays. I mean, sometimes I'm so far away from her joy.

Like maybe she's painted something and she's showing it to me and she's thinking that it's the best thing she's ever done, but I'm looking at her clothes in horror because those weren't the washable paints I gave her. That outfit is supposed to last until next summer and those white shoes will never be white again. My first inclination is to say, "Oh, look at you, look at the mess you made. I'll never get those clothes clean. Now I'll have to buy something new. Do you know how long Mommy has to work to afford new clothes?" And then it slaps me because her face immediately crumples and she wails, "But my picture!"

I've gotten better because I've made her face crumple a lot and anyone who has felt the slap as a child recognizes that in their own child, and it feels terrible because you can't take it back. You promise yourself that you're not going to do certain things that were done to you as a child, and then of course you do them. It's all in an effort to do the right thing for Hannah, whether it's working a lot so she can have things, or spending my free time cleaning instead of playing. But I live by the clock and I can only do so much. I guess that's part of being an adult-which can be a drag-it's definitely a loss of freedom for me and not always fun.

Before I had Hannah, I drove my dad's old rusted Toyota. There was no air conditioning, and you had to play the radio real loud if you wanted to hear it, but it was perfect. I'd zoom along the levy at seventy miles per hour, not worrying if the gravel chipped the paint; I was going where I wanted to go and getting there fast. I didn't buckle up, I never worried if I had enough money. I'd throw my cash on the passenger side of the car, and if I needed money I'd just rummage down there and get some. People made all sorts of fun of me.

But when Hannah was born I needed a car with a back seat because it was safer for babies, and it's easier if you have that second set of doors. So suddenly I had a sedan! I patted myself on the back because I felt that I was doing the right thing, buying that boxy-looking four-door car with the air bag and the special safety straps. But a part of me, the wilder, carefree part of me, disappeared along with that Toyota. And I don't ride down the levy anymore, either. I'm terrified every time I think I hear a rock. Even Hannah's scared. We'll be riding along and we hear a click and she'll say in this horrified little voice, "Was that a rock hitting our car?" Now that I'm paying $230 a month for that car, I'll be dammed if it's going to get torn up.

So I guess you make your choices. Part of me longs for those days when I only had me to take care of. It's a change getting used to having another person in your life all the time. When Hannah was one or two years old we might drive an hour to go to school or to work, and it never occurred to me to speak to the child. I was just so used to being by myself. Now I have to remind myself to talk to her on those long drives.

I hope that if Hannah gets anything from me, she'll realize that just because I'm her mother, I'm not perfect, and sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes I'll yell or lose my temper or be unfair, but I always tell her when I've been wrong. I tell her that it's just as hard being a mom as it is being a kid sometimes. I don't have all the answers, and I'm doing the best that I can. I mean, I'm not Barbie.