First Shoes

I bought 4 pairs of shoes for Sam in his first year—two were eaten by the Doberman, one never stayed on, and the fourth, a pair of cloth sneakers, he wore on the cement patio in his walker until the soles wore thin as onion skins and his toes stuck out.

Sam has been walking since the week of Christmas 2006 and the other day, he came careening around the corner at the perilous speed of 2 miles an hour and promptly did a face plant. His slippery socks on hardwood floors, combined with increasing velocity, mean that a real pair of hard sole shoes is now in order. So… off we went to Wal-mart in hopes that some nice person in China had assembled just the pair for us.

I should warn parents of little boys that little girls get everything. Dozens upon dozens of adorable, shiny, buckled, buttoned, fuzzy, flowered, sequined, stitched and otherwise accessorized shoes are available for toddling females. Even their shoe boxes are pink. For boys, the choices run the gamut of hiking boot to sneaker to the occasional sandal. The sheer array of 3 neutral colors leaves one dizzy with indecision. You also have the choice of velcro vs. shoelace, but I say that any child with the patience to let you tie up their laces is probably ready for college.

While Sam kicked wildly from the shopping cart, I knelt down and attempted to capture a foot and stuff it into a shoe. I was very serious, but Sam chuckled and screeched and grabbed chunks of my hair.

At least a dozen Wal-mart employees passed by in their grubby blue vests sporting annoying yellow smiley faces and giant font reading: HOW MAY I HELP YOU? How I might be helped was painfully obvious to me, but they preferred to goo and coo at Sam. One named Shaniqwa and another named Ngóc even tickled his chin while Sam pounded my head with delight. Against all odds, I arrived at the conclusion that Sam was a size 4 (Mexican size 11, European size 80,645,000) and bought him a pair of handsome walnut-brown, velcro sneakers, hecho en Chino. They are absolutely adorable so screw the strawberry n’ sunshine, bugs n’ butterfly, don’t-ever-wear-this-to-actually- play-in girly shoes.

When we got home, I sat Sam in my cross-legged lap, deposited a snack into his open red mouth, and worked his feet into the shoes. Then I stood him up. They looked like fat little brown blocks. I wanted to eat them they were so delicious. Sam wobbled uncertainly and propelled his outstretched arms in forward circles, as if he were standing on the tippy edge of a diving board. Lifting one curiously heavy foot, he let it drop again. Then he placed his hands on his thighs and did a few deep knee bends, the kind he does when he’s filling his diapers, only this time he wasn’t. An index finger eventually emerged and poked at the shoes, trying to badger them off his feet. No use. Suddenly filled with dismay, he sat down and burst into tears.

I tried to prop him back up on his feet but he kept collapsing into a pitiful heap like a puppet without its strings. So I stood up and pulled him to his feet, holding his hands the way we used to when he was learning how to walk. He hung there despondently, twitching his legs weakly as if a faint current of electricity passed through them. Finally he gave a little sigh and put his weight on his legs.

One step.

Two steps.

“Baa,” he said.

“Good boy,” I said.

I let go. He took a few more steps. And so it has been for two whole days: Sam clumping loudly around the house in his new brown sneakers, brandishing toys at the Doberman with no fear of slipping on the hardwood floor in his socks.

Tonight when I gave him a spatula to play with, he stabbed his little brown shoes with ferocious enthusiasm. Backing up step by step to get away from the self-inflicted attacks, he soon knocked into the sleeping Doberman, at which point he turned on the dog and smacked it soundly with the spatula. And this means that everything has returned to normal.