I try not to let everything be an escalating decision. You know: I buy the wrong size shoes. He walks for six months with his toes crinkled before I figure out the shoes are too small. The muscle memory of crinkled toes keeps him from running properly. He doesn't play sports. He resents not playing sports and thus slacks on his school work. And he never moves out because he can't decide what he wants to do. Ai, kenahora.
Anyway, it's just shoes. They need to fit and be easy to put on, (but not so easy to take off). How hard can it be? But then I'm trying on different shoes, feeling for his toes, watching him walk and it seems a little overwhelming. Granted I wasn't in a place that offered a shoe salesmen, I was in a box store, but nevertheless... I wasn't totally sure what I was doing. We ended up with a pair of Osh Kosh B'Gosh pull-on loafers and some snowboots, in toddler size 6.
This, then, spurs on the nostalgia that I can't believe he's already to toddler shoes. How can this have happened? There's a double-edged poignancy in parenthood wherein you're so thrilled at each new achievement toward independence, but you mourn the step away from you. And, in truth, when buying shoes- like everything else- you do the best you can.
Dear Son won't remember the shoe buying trip or the first time I zipped his jacket while kneeling in front of him, but I will. Those moments are like one of those repeating mirrors, but toward the future, where I can see myself doing the same thing again and again and again. Sure there will be time when I won't be in the best mood nor will he always cheerfully throw the shoe boxes around like he did today. But those moments are the foundation of our love and they are what I appreciate the most, even when they are forgotten.