In His Shoes
My son Guy is out of town, so I’m wearing his shoes. Well, they’re my shoes, really, size 39 Birkenstock sandals that he appropriated a few months ago. They’re unisex, after all, and quite comfortable. Plus they’re mine, so he gets a kick out of teasing me about the purloined sandals. I may joke with him now and then, and beg him to give them back, but I did say I’d let him have them as long as he returned them to me when he outgrew them.
So I’m sneaking around in these sandals now, the buckles adjusted for my narrower feet. They feel great, though not quite the same. They feel as if my son has been wearing them. Any day now, perhaps while he’s away this week, he’ll outgrow them. Then my feet can reclaim them. What about him? While he’s been hinting around for a larger pair, I’m not sure these are the sort of shoes a thrifty mom buys a growing teenager who has needed three new pairs of sneakers in the past five months.
In our den, there is a photograph of Guy wearing another pair of old Birkenstock sandals. He’s four. The sandals are too large for his feet, and the camera he’s aiming at me is bigger than his hands. How many pictures exist of children wearing their parents’ shoes? I didn’t want to take the time to do a scientific survey, so I just opened an old photo album.
And there I was, age two, wearing diapers and elegant black high heels. The white gloves on my hands were way too large, and they sort of clashed with the striped t-shirt. Even the shirt, my older brother’s, was a little large. Only the diaper fit. Turning the page, I found myself still attired in the shoes, my glove-handed arms hugging my older brother, who was three. John was quite dapper in our father’s high-topped rubber fishing boots.
On the hearth in my living room, two pairs of tiny shoes are lined up, my first pair of shoes and Guy’s. Mine are dark red leather oxfords, the first in a long line of oxfords that I had to wear when I wasn’t clomping around in my mother’s high heels. Guy’s are green, red, and blue sneakers. They have green laces. I don’t know why I put the shoes there to gather dust, unless it was to remind myself of our humble beginnings. We both started out so small.
As Guy was packing for his trip, we discussed what all he would take. He didn’t want the Birkenstocks for this particular adventure. When he eyed my Teva sport sandals, waterproof so he could ramble around in them all week by the ocean, I knew they were next on his list. He tried them on, and they fit—barely. Although these sandals are just about my favorite shoes, I had to let him take them with him. Now as I wear his/my Birkenstocks, it feels like a fair trade. He’s walking down a beach in his mom’s unisex sandals, and I’m walking around back home in his.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when Guy no longer can sneak away with my shoes. I guess he’ll have bigger things on his mind soon, like the keys to my Sentra. Maybe I’ll let him drive it if he dangles his baby shoes from the rear view mirror. On second thought, maybe not. I’d hate for others to tease him because his mom is such a sentimentalist. I’ve got to let him outgrow more than our shoes.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 4 August 2004, p. A6. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2004.
So I’m sneaking around in these sandals now, the buckles adjusted for my narrower feet. They feel great, though not quite the same. They feel as if my son has been wearing them. Any day now, perhaps while he’s away this week, he’ll outgrow them. Then my feet can reclaim them. What about him? While he’s been hinting around for a larger pair, I’m not sure these are the sort of shoes a thrifty mom buys a growing teenager who has needed three new pairs of sneakers in the past five months.
In our den, there is a photograph of Guy wearing another pair of old Birkenstock sandals. He’s four. The sandals are too large for his feet, and the camera he’s aiming at me is bigger than his hands. How many pictures exist of children wearing their parents’ shoes? I didn’t want to take the time to do a scientific survey, so I just opened an old photo album.
And there I was, age two, wearing diapers and elegant black high heels. The white gloves on my hands were way too large, and they sort of clashed with the striped t-shirt. Even the shirt, my older brother’s, was a little large. Only the diaper fit. Turning the page, I found myself still attired in the shoes, my glove-handed arms hugging my older brother, who was three. John was quite dapper in our father’s high-topped rubber fishing boots.
On the hearth in my living room, two pairs of tiny shoes are lined up, my first pair of shoes and Guy’s. Mine are dark red leather oxfords, the first in a long line of oxfords that I had to wear when I wasn’t clomping around in my mother’s high heels. Guy’s are green, red, and blue sneakers. They have green laces. I don’t know why I put the shoes there to gather dust, unless it was to remind myself of our humble beginnings. We both started out so small.
As Guy was packing for his trip, we discussed what all he would take. He didn’t want the Birkenstocks for this particular adventure. When he eyed my Teva sport sandals, waterproof so he could ramble around in them all week by the ocean, I knew they were next on his list. He tried them on, and they fit—barely. Although these sandals are just about my favorite shoes, I had to let him take them with him. Now as I wear his/my Birkenstocks, it feels like a fair trade. He’s walking down a beach in his mom’s unisex sandals, and I’m walking around back home in his.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when Guy no longer can sneak away with my shoes. I guess he’ll have bigger things on his mind soon, like the keys to my Sentra. Maybe I’ll let him drive it if he dangles his baby shoes from the rear view mirror. On second thought, maybe not. I’d hate for others to tease him because his mom is such a sentimentalist. I’ve got to let him outgrow more than our shoes.
Felicia Mitchell. First published in Washington County News (Abingdon, VA), 4 August 2004, p. A6. WCN is a publication of Media General Operations. Copyright 2004.
posted by Felicia Mitchell | 7:06 AM
