My Son's Shoes

This morning I nearly rushed out the door barefoot, but decided at the last minute to slip some shoes on. I often go without, and often find myself wishing I'd put some on. Hate to tiptoe and flinch when I get to rough spots. The kids across the street have a bad habit of breaking their beer bottles in the street. More than once, I've been out there with a dustpan and broom, sweeping up the pieces. I sometimes wish I were the kind of adult who would take the dustpan and broom to their door and make them come out and sweep it up. I'm not. Besides... I think it's probably friends of the kids who live there who most often are causing the problem.

But back to the shoes... I slipped on a pair of flip-flops just because they were within reach. Available. And two steps out the door I realized the shoes belonged to my son! My baby boy! My seven-year-old!!!

To be honest, his feet probably aren't all that huge. I bought flip-flops on the large side to make sure he could wear them all summer. They were a little short on me, but not as short as you would imagine. It does send a little shock to the soul, however, realizing that you can get your feet into your baby's shoes.