Forget the obvious exchanges between the two adults.
“You have sixteen pairs of black shoes, why is there another box from Zappo’s on the front porch?”
“You have one pair of dress shoes, why am I married to you?”
Last week it was about the Meyer children and their shoes.
Hadley could not understand why short black boots were not appropriate for school. It made little difference to her as she writhed in protest that the black boots on her feet were mine–and had a three inch heel.
In that same week we had fight’s about flip flops, sandals and tap shoes.At every retail destination where shoes were sold, Haddie whined “but Mooooooooooom. All of my shoes are just too small. Can I please have just one more pair? My feet hurt so badly every single day!”
I don’t have any idea were she gets it from.
The topper of the week, or so I thought, was Sam.
One morning, four minutes before the bus was due, he was still in his socks. While he ran around looking for his sneakers, my anger mounted. The more agitated I got, the more clueless he got. “Samuel Bruce! FIND SOME SHOES AND PUT THEM ON RIGHT NOW!”
He protested. “But…but Mom, I have gym. I HAVE to have my sneakers!”
I handed him his Crocs and shooed him out the door. We were a case in point. Apparently a large study out of Columbia showed that people that wear Crocs tend to be unmotivated.
“If I find your sneakers before third period, I will bring them to you. If I don’t find them, I guess you will have to sit out and take a zero for today.” I know I did not sound patient.
I slammed the door a little too hard and made another coffee to get me through the shoe search.
I had turned the entire house upside down with no luck. That boy’s brand new sneakers were nowhere to be found. In an angry, incoherent fit, I decided to take the trash out. As I wheeled the receptacle to the curb I mumbled to myself. A few feet from the end of the driveway, I tripped on something and barely escaped landing on my face. That something was the exact same pair of Crocs that had, moments before, been on Sam’s feet. I gathered that as he ran to the bus, he had found his sneakers at the end of the driveway and abandoned the Crocs mid-stride. I did not have the energy to question the presence of the sneakers at the end of the driveway at 7 am.
At least Maisy has some shoe sense. I had even started to warm up to her foot attire of the month: black lace up combat boots.Here too was a classic bit of life irony. She and I were at war almost everyday. Why not combat boots?
At the end of Croc day, I sat in my parked car in front of the middle school. As I , not-so-patiently waited for Maisy to make her goodbyes my eyes caught sight of her feet. Please note that I said “feet,” not shoes. That is because, as she stood on the doorstep of the school, my shoe- sensible kid was completely barefoot.
She clamored into the front seat balancing bags on her shoulders, books in her arms, and pencils in her teeth. I stuttered. “Where. Are. Your. Shoes?”
“Don’t worry Mom!” she laughed. “I have ‘em. They’re right here…in my lunch bag.”
Right. Where else would they be?