Missing Shoes

My son currently cannot locate his sneakers. They are nowhere to be found, which is beyond my comprehension. The boy has a total of four pairs of shoes; his sneakers, his “croc-adees” (i.e. Crocs said in a remarkably realistic Aussie accent), his hiking boots, and his muck boots that shall never entereth into this house. 

“How does one lose the shoes worn on an almost daily basis?”

This is what I call a boy-mom question. I’ll add it to the list, right next to “Why are there five sparkly-clean pinecones in my dryer?” 

As I tell him to “just grab your Crocs because we’re late for church” (said in a remarkably calm yet stern Southern Mama accent), I suddenly have visions of missing shoe episodes of days gone by. 

This domesticated, albeit forgetful, ten-year-old was once a feral two-year-old. 

There I stood, a single mom of two toddlers, in the middle of a crowded Dollar Tree. I naively thought I could run in and grab a couple of items quickly and painlessly. However, there was much pain inflicted, on both my pride as well as the eardrums of innocent bargain shoppers, and the only thing quick about that trip was the speed at which my face turned bright red. 

Speaking the words, “No, we are not buying that toy,” was the equivalent of pulling a fire alarm. I had set off the siren of high-pitched wailing as customers frantically tried to protect their ears from the violent cacophony that threatened to trip the Richter scale. Panicked families pulled their loved ones close to save them from the flailing limbs of a tiny angry human. Others froze, mesmerized by witnessing, with their own eyes, something so wild up close. 

The moments that followed were a blur. I most likely covered every bribe and threat known to mankind and parents everywhere. As he removed his shoes and hurled them down aisle six, “fight” mode quickly surrendered to “flight.” I dropped whatever items I had intended to purchase, grabbed the hand of the bewildered three-year-old sister, scooped up the rabid wildlife, and fled the premises, leaving behind a trail of “I’m sorry”s in our wake. 

Just before I reached my vehicle, I heard a voice calling after me. A dear woman handed me two tiny shoes, along with a smile and a look that spoke volumes above the ear-piercing shrieks. 

She had been there. She knew it was hard and she knew it would get easier. She knew I was doing my best and that there wasn’t anything wrong with me or my child. She knew I would soon be missing these little feet that fit in these shoes. She knew it would pass all too quickly. She knew there’d come a day when this wild child in my arms would be opening the door for his mama as he accompanied her to Dollar Tree while wearing shoes on his feet for the duration of the visit. 

She knew what I now know. 

Life is made up of hundreds of passing seasons. Just as we’re breaking in one pair of shoes, we’ve outgrown them, or it’s time to put away the summer Crocs and pull out winter boots. Just when we figure out one season, it’s time to transition to another. And each phase has its own unique joys to treasure and challenges to face. 

Although they are all different, seasons of life have one thing in common; an ending. That can be both a hopeful and sobering realization.

So, as I help my boy hunt for missing shoes, I am reminded of the miles he’s walked from those hard days of screaming shoe-hurling. The growth is extraordinary - in both of us. But, no matter our age or stage, we’re never walking these changing seasons alone, are we? Just like two-year-olds, we too are carried, weary and weak… or kicking and screaming. Talk about a sobering and hope-filled realization.

Well, if missing shoes are the challenge of the moment, I’d say we’re doing pretty well. I’m sure they will turn up eventually.

Maybe I should check the dryer.

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