Smelly Shoes

As I was leaving for work yesterday, I tripped over one of my twelve year old son’s shoes.

This can be dangerous. At 5’6, he wears size 11.5 shoes. I know this for a fact, because we had his feet measured last weekend when we bought our only school shopping item to date-shoes.

I cannot comprehend being 5’6 and having feet that are size 11.5. That would equate to what I looked like on vacation in Hawaii: giant mask, snorkel and flippers, waddling down to the beach.

I’m not sure how he walks without tripping.

Nevertheless, the large pile of boys shoes by my front door made me stop and think about the shoes, and the feet that go in them.

Some of the shoes in the pile don’t belong to my kids, they belong to the other tweens who have invaded my house all summer.

As much as they have farted, burped, eaten and slept their way through my home since May, the shoes that don’t belong to my children reminded me that for some reason, children have chosen our house to re-locate to when possible.

I bet it’s my never ending supply of my Cheeze-Its that they gobble down, regardless of my threats.

Maybe it’s the fact that while many of their dads are at work during the day, my husband is plopped right there in the middle of them, game controller in hand.

I realized how big the shoes looked, and how little those feet had once all been.

With my first born, I remember my brother, no job, expensive tastes still in place, bringing Tyler a pair of mesh Air Jordans to the hospital.

In 1993, Air Jordans for a newborn cost $60.

My brother was unemployed, but this was his first nephew; money was not an issue.

With my middle son, I remember bringing him home from the hospital, barely tipping the scales at 5 lbs. He was tiny. I had to buy him socks from the baby doll department at Toys ‘R Us.

With Jordan, I remember the very first thing my husband said when he was born was not, ‘wow, he looks like me.’ It was ‘oh my goodness, look at those feet.’

Even as a newborn, his tiny feet eclipsed his little body. Little did we know.

I thought of all the times those 3 sets of once tiny feet once ran to the door to tell me goodbye as I left on random work trips, Jordan saying, ‘but mama, I will MISS YOU.’

I realized how much they’ve grown, those feet, my boys.

Now they drive cars, and those same feet storm up stairs to slam doors when they are mad at me, or carry them out back to clean off the patio for surprise parties.

Lastly, I thought of where those shoes, those stinky smelly, awful teenage boy shoes, and the feet that go in them will go; the fact that one day they will stand at the end of an aisle, (I pray in a church and not a courtroom,) or how many, MANY years from now, they will wait in a hospital room for their own new pair of tiny feet to arrive.

Somehow that stack of shoes reminded me of the half way point that we are at with these boys, closer now to men each day. Well, on most days.

I was, momentarily, thankful that the big pile of shoes, with my kids smelly sneakers, was at my house, and not at another house.

And I really want to track down the inventor of Febreeze and thank him.