I like boots. They are my favorite winter footwear. (These boots were made for walking and all.) Black boots, brown boots, high heels, riding boots. (Dear Santa, I presently have a thing for red cowboy boots.)
I have clearly passed my love of shoes onto my children.
We’ve moved beyond the more traditional daybreak greeting of “good morning.” These days the simple act of waking the boys up is met with, “Mommy. I need boots on my feet.”
Ever since the mudslide spectacular tree adventure the muppets have been obsessed with their rain boots. (Technically this obsession began last Christmas with the superhero stylings.) This has been the cause of minor meltdowns on sunny California days when we’ve tried to force their everyday sneakers on to their ever-growing feetsies. (Even neon green light up Pumas.)
Today I arrived at preschool for pickup. Search lit up. “Mommy’s here!” He’s not usually quite so excited to leave the playroom.
His teacher appeared next to me as I signed the boys out.
Afternoon teacher: So, Search took off his shoe this afternoon and threw it at Miss Michelle’s head.
Afternoon teacher: He had to have a talking too.
Search: Go home. Now.
Me: Say goodbye to Afternoon teacher.
Afternoon teacher: I think he’s still mad at me.
Me: Then perhaps he should learn not to throw shoes.
Search darted toward the gate at high speed – heading straight for the car. As I strapped him in, he looked up at me. “Sorry mommy.” I was rather pleased with myself as we headed home. This was going to be a sweet teachable moment.
Me: Are you sorry you threw your shoe at Miss Michelle?
<A shoe flew through my sightline in the rearview mirror. Parenting educational fail.>
Me: Did you just throw your shoe at me?
Me: Then where is your shoe? <as I hold up the proof>
Search: I’m holding my shoe. <holding up his remaining shoe>
When we got home nary a shoe nor sock was to be found on the toddling foot. And my suggestions to reshoe the tot were heartily rebuffed.
Fine then. The kid could make the walk across the 10 feet between the car and front door barefoot. Despite the frigid 50-degree NorCal weather.
By the time his brother and I had made it inside, the pants had joined the ranks of the footwear.
“I have a monkey on my bottom,” he announced, pointing to his diaper.
“Search has no pants,” narrated Destroy.
“I need my boots,” Search retorted.
Now that’s dedication.