The Shoe Fail

So, it turns out that I was torturing my oldest with shoes that were too small. Much too small.

Earlier this summer, the boys went to a week-long half-day camp at our district’s high school. They loved! For five days, their mornings were filled with arts and crafts, games in the gym, fun in the computer lab and a swim in the high school pool. And I had mornings free to slog through all the paperwork needed for my little half-Canucks’ Canadian Citizenship application.

Ready for their first morning of camp.

All campers were required to wear running shoes, so after a summer of sandals and bare-feet, I pulled two dusty pairs of sneakers out of our shoe-bin, put them through the wash and had ‘em ready to go for that first Monday of camp. At the end of the morning, after regaling me with all the fun, amazing, awesome, wonderful things that they both had done, Ben said:

“Mommy? My toes hurt.”

“Your toes hurt?” I asked. “Which foot? Did someone set on your toes in the gym?”

“No,” Ben replied. “Both feet hurt. I think my toes are squished in my running shoes.”

Really? I had just bought Ben’s running shoes in the spring. He had had them for a few months, if that. Could they be too small already? I had hoped to get at least another month out of them before back-to-school shopping.

“You know what Ben,” I said, figuring that his runners couldn’t be more than just a little snug, maybe a half-size or so too small. “We’re going camping next week. I don’t want to buy you new running shoes before we go camping (undoubtedly the best way to ruin a shiny new pair of sneakers). As soon as we get back we’ll go shoe shopping.”

Makes sense, right?

After all, how much could his feet really have grown in just a few months?

The boys finished their week of camp, we all met Grandma and Grandpa for some camping (where it rained and everyone wore billy-boots), and upon our return off we went to the shoe store where a sale promised Buy One, Get One 1/2 Off!

Benjamin, Nicholas and I were met at the door by a cheery salesgirl who generously offered to measure the boys’ stinky feet (they actually were kind of stinky. Time to throw the sandals in the wash too).

“That would be great,” I thanked her. “I’m pretty sure that they’ve each gone up half a size or so.”

Nicholas went first, graduating into big boy sizes from a twelve to a size one. Hmmm…a full-size, more than I had thought, but not too unexpected. I guess.

Then it was Ben’s turn: “He’s a size four,” chirped our salesgirl. “Maybe even a four-and-a-half, depending on the shoe.”

“Really?” I gasped.

“Yup,” she cheerily went on to measure Ben’s other foot (also a size four). “What size was he in before?”

“Ummm, a two,” I mumbled inaudibly.

“Pardon?”

Geez. Did she have to ask so loudly?

“He was in a size two,” I spoke up. Cue the crickets.

Little Miss Cheery raised an eyebrow at me. Then turned to Ben, “Wow. Your old shoes must have been really pinching your toes. Time for some new ones!”

Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m a horrible parent. I tortured my son’s feet with running shoes two (and maybe a half, depending on the shoe) sizes too small (didn’t the Grinch have a heart that was two sizes too small? Just sayin’).  But in my defense, how many six-year olds do you know who are 4’6” with size four feet. I’m barely 5’5’’ (when I stand up straight and puff out my hair). My six-year old is less than a foot shorter than me.

My shoes besides Ben’s new size fours.

Pretty sure we all know where Ben comes by the height.

To smooth my guilty heart, I let my stinkbugs have the color of their choice. And I tripled checked how much room they had for their toes. Both wore their new sneakers out of the store. Our salesgirl looked on approvingly.

Oh, and I threw those stinky sandals in the wash as soon as we got home too. Can’t have their toes squished and smelly.

xo Naomi