It’s not just the fact that they cost too much and are outgrown before the soles are worn; it’s because I put them on little feet eleventyninehundred times a day. At least it feels that way.
Luke has the sweetest disposition of anyone in my house. He's just an easy kid; he rarely needs more than a distraction to correct him when he's misbehaving. He is happy, he greets me with a smile in the mornings, and even when he’s naughty (like last night when he needed rescuing from the puddle of toilet water he created after putting half a roll of toilet paper in the potty in MY bathroom where he wouldn’t be disturbed), his enthusiastic baby grin usually diffuses my frustration.
Except when he takes off his shoes.
It’s probably an issue of leftover baggage from Ella’s shoe-shedding phase that only recently ended. But holy mother, it drives me nuts to put on his shoes and the put them on again, then again, and then one more time BEFORE WE GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. Then, as soon as we get into the car, he takes them off again.
Gah!
The only reason I bother to put them on him in the mornings is because he walks to the car by himself. He would gladly go barefoot, but sometimes it's wet and sometimes it's cold. So, I’ve started waiting until the last minute to put them on, right before we walk out the door. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Today, not so much.
I put the shoes on him (praise the good Lord that Ella finally does this job herself), I gathered up all our crap (because I’m not just a mommy, I’m a Mommy Mule), I opened the door and said “Load up” like I do every morning. On the way to the door, he took off his shoe. And handed it to me with his cute little face, saying, “Shoe-shoe!”
I lost it.
I yelled out a rant that went something like, “WHY must you take your shoes off EVERY.TIME. I put them on you?! We are about to walk out the door! You can’t leave them on for 45 seconds? I am so tired of putting your shoes on you fifteen hundred times a day!”
He just cocked his head and looked at me with his sweet face like, “Is she talking to me?” Then I stomped out to the car, loaded all the crap, got Ella in her side, and came back for him. He always stops on the porch to love the cat and usually he runs from me when I’m ready to put him in the car. I was all loaded and ready for that this morning, but do you know what I found?
The sweet little punk was working so hard to close the door behind himself; and he was so proud.
Diffused again.
I picked him up and thanked him for his helping hands, then I whispered that I was sorry I yelled at him. He loves whispering right now, so he grinned and whispered back to me. All is well; he probably forgave me before I ever yelled the first word because that’s how he rolls.
But I still hate little shoes.
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