The Class We Bring to Every Situation

One morning in the mountains last week, Hank could not find his shoes. He can't find things for crap but I couldn't find them either. We do provide shoes for the child, even shoes that fit him and have laces, but he has spent the last four months wearing a single pair of blue World Cup edition Crocs, the "Italia" ones with a snazzy flag on the back. Yes, he picked them out. Because of his deep love of professional soccer? I dunno. But they're his go-to shoes and the only ones he had with him up there.

The Crocs, in happier times.

Then they were missing and we were trying to leave the house to go to town and get some lunch. Everyone was already in the car, waiting. I said, "Okay, our first stop will be at Walmart and I will get him a pair of flip flops." I am not a Walmart fan, but I wanted to pay approximately 89 cents for these shoes, and Mom had errands to run, and she could run them there.

When we got to the parking lot, I grabbed a buggy from near the car, carried Hank to it across the 200 degree asphalt, and sat him in the little seat. I wheeled him through the entrance, planning to beeline to the shoes. Then I heard an ancient, creaky voice saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am!" I realized I was being interpellated by the Walmart Greeter. I had never heard a Walmart Greeter actually speak, much less, um, Greet. So I had to blink for a moment or two before I could respond. This gave the blessed antediluvian soul time to state her business. "You have to keep him in that seat, hon. You can't let him get down with no shoes." She shook her head apologetically, as though letting one's child run barefoot through a big box store really should be one of the freedoms we take for granted as Americans, but this world today, what can you do? I smiled brightly and said that I was going straight to the shoes.

So that is how we were almost not well-dressed enough to enter Walmart.

And then, THEN, we get back to the shoes, and Hank turns into a tiny Tim Gunn on me. The flip flops he couldn't keep on his feet--it was comical--so those were out. And when I presented him with a pair of faux Crocs (Frocs? Crocks?) he said, "Those aren't really my style."

Oh, of course, would sir allow me to show him something in a Lightning McQueen slip-on? His style, RIGHT.

I finally found a pair of plain black canvas tennis shoes, like pretend Keds, that he agreed to wear. And they cost $3. I put them on his feet and we completed our business. At the check out counter, I wanted to have them scan his foot, but I removed one shoe instead. And then the next day I found the blue Italia Crocs behind the hot tub.

So that was a thing that happened one time. Having my sense of decorum justifiably called into question at the entrance to Walmart. xoxox-B