Notes from Mother’s Journal: Burn Those Shoes

Along with dolls that whine at you and Kraft Dinner Flavoured Crackers, today’s thing I don’t understand: squeaky shoes for children. Not shoes that squeak; I used to have a co-worker whose shoes were creaky, like an old door, which was good because you could hear him coming (if the crunching celery wasn’t a dead giveaway – dude ate more celery than Saint Aardvark in a heat wave!) (hint: that’s a lot of celery) but I mean when the shoe people put a little squeaker INSIDE the shoe so that every step goes SQUEAK. Have you ever seen a child walk? SQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAK …SQUEAK…SQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAK

My question: shouldn’t that person get kicked out of the library? Or off the planet?

Also, if you have been reading this blog for 5 years (haven’t you?) you might remember (Well, you MIGHT) that I posted about this once before. A month before I got pregnant with Trombone. Those were the days. (worth reading for the comments alone)

Today’s Evil Squeaky Shoe Allower was attending to an 18 month old who, apparently, wouldn’t put on any other shoes this morning. ESSA (aka, his mom) said he wouldn’t put on any other shoes this morning! So – there you go.

Don’t get me wrong. I know from the will of a toddler. Choose your battles, right?

1. Why do you have the shoes in your house? BURN THEM. Then he’ll have to choose another pair. Kid has, like, three words, right? What’s he gonna do – call a lawyer?

2. Of course he loves them best – they make noise. Children like to make noise. Your job is to CURB THEM. If I can get the incredible shrieking banshee, aka Fresco, to shut up in the library, anything is possible. Anything. I can bend time and travel faster than the speed of light. I just went back in time and burned your kid’s shoes. You’re welcome.

3. Sock feet will be just fine in the library. I declare it.

4. I’m sorry, strange woman. You seem nice enough. I make it a policy not to tell other people what to do with their children but MY EARS MY EARS MY EARS.

And because I can’t let a good rant come between me and my desire to be even-handed and less judgmental:

– maybe she can only afford one pair of shoes
– maybe she had 18 piles of shit to deal with this morning and just decided – hey, suck it, world
– maybe the child’s father just left and the shoes had been a birthday gift
– maybe the puppy ate the kid’s other shoes

And now I want to write a sappy country song about the squeaky shoes.

Daddy gave the box to me / all wrapped up real nice
Mommy said, hooray for you / now how’s about a rye on ice
Daddy said, get it yourself / I’m sure you know the way
now come on boy, just pull that ribbon / and then go out to play

Ohhhhhhh Daddy gave me squeaky shoes / and then he went away
I wear them every night to bed / and every single day
I hope he hears them squeaking / and remembers to come home
oh Daddy gave me squeaky shoes / and then went off to roam.


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