I pulled to a stop in front of the kids shoe section. Why are kids so rough on shoes? One second they look fine, the next they are falling apart. Maybe it is crappy construction?
My daughter dang near fell out of the cart trying to reach for the pink sparkly shoes that were four sizes too small that had caught her eye.
“Sweetheart, that’s too small for you.”
Cue the histrionic wailing.
I pried the shoes out of her grubby death grip and placed them back on the shelf only to turn around and find my son hanging upside down from the end of the cart.
How the hell did he do that so fast?!?!??!
I dragged him off and put him back on his feet only to discover that my daughter had grabbed another pair of sparkly pink shoes. These were four times too big.
I cursed myself for thinking that taking the two of them shopping for shoes would be a good thing.
The balance of power was stacked against me…
At that moment I looked up to find a surgeon that I refer to quite a bit staring wide eyed at the insanity. She had been watching the whole spectacle. Her daughter was standing beside her quietly, perfectly well behaved.
The woman was perfectly coifed and dressed in a chic casual outfit, not an ounce of flab anywhere on her body.
I was dressed in my running clothes: ponytail, hat, wind shorts, tank top, barely any make-up. I was suddenly self conscious about my squishy parts.
Her daughter was clean, dressed adorably in an outfit that matched perfectly.
My daughter looked like a garish, heroin addicted color blind princess. I had let her pick her outfit this morning. At least she felt beautiful as she cowered in the bottom of the shopping cart, making odd frightened bunny sounds.
“Hi!” my son volunteered, recognizing that she and I knew each other. “We made Bantha bowls and blue light-saber ice pops this morning.” He said it matter-of-factly as of it was the most natural thing to say to a woman he had never actually met before.
The woman stared back. Then she laughed.
All was well in the shoe aisle.