Shopping with boys

With back to school shopping needing to be done, I have been reflecting on our past shopping trips with the boys. One that stands out in my mind was a couple of years ago. Innocently, without cruel intentions or malice, my partner and I had taken our two boys to Sears, to get them each new shoes.

Our older son, “Secret Service,” had played two hockey games and a baseball game that weekend plus tackle football with his younger brother right before the shopping trip, but as soon as we got inside the shoe department, he reported that his body was so wracked with pain, he was unable to remove his shoes so that we could get an accurate measurement of his feet. While he winced and squirmed (and whined), still unable to pull his foot from his shoe, the younger one, “Sport,” happily got sized. Miraculously, his feet had not grown, so he was eligible to select a new pair of shoes by the same manufacturer and we wouldn’t have to pay. Thrilled to save money, we showed him the section of these shoes. Like a diminutive, affluent gentleman, with distinctive, superior taste, he turned his nose up at this selection of familiar shoes, instead declaring that he wanted a “new look.” He went about opening and looking into numerous boxes, talking to himself about white shoes, that we knew would be dark the moment he stepped out of the store, silver shoes that looked like aliens had landed on earth, and black shoes etched with neon lime green trim.

Meanwhile, Secret Service, his old shoes still tightly fastened to his feet, had fallen into a heap on the floor, writhing and whimpering about the pain he was in. Sympathetic patrons looked upon us as if we were deranged to bring a suffering child to Sears instead of the local minor emergency center. Eventually, with the bribe of a piece of chewing gum, he did gingerly produce his feet for measurement and did grudgingly accept a replacement for the tattered shoes he had been wearing.

We then turned our full attention back to Sport, the one who seemed exuberant in his love of shoes. He announced that none of the shoes that we offered were right for him, the look he was after. He tried on every shoe his size and like a fussy Goldylocks, claimed one was too tight, one was too loose, one was too ugly, one was just like what he’d had, and on and on. My partner and I scurried around, proffering shoes of various hues, trying to convince him that the shoes we wanted him to select looked lovely on his feet. Eventually, a deal was struck.

Upon leaving the store, Secret Service, who had still been glum and reporting unmitigated pain, had a liveliness to his step. I guess, you’re happy we’re going home, I said. Well, he answered, I thought since we behaved so well, we could go for ice cream. Sport agreed.