On my way to the shower each morning I pickup wooden blocks on the stairs. It’s not uncommon to find toy cars scattered around the floor of my bathroom which I pickup and place on the sink hoping they’ll magically drive back to their garage while I shower.
I pickup blankets in the hallway, Cocoa Puffs on the couch and quarters in my shoes when Kai finds the change jar.
But when it comes to getting control of the shoes in this home I give up. I’m outmatched and outnumbered. I concede defeat at the hands of one yellow rain boot I fished out of the dog’s water bowl. And you, black boot with the scuffed toe, I promise to walk right by you the next time I catch you chillaxin in front of the TV.
I could go around our house and pickup shoes for three hours. It’s a part-time job without compensation or 15 minute breaks. Every drawer, closet, couch, cupboard, and laundry chute contains at least a couple of shoes that don’t match. My house is a landmine of shoes I’m clearly unable to navigate.
I swear strangers are planting boots, slippers and tennis shoes around our house when I’m gone because I don’t recognize half the shoes I trip over. I’ll pickup a shoe I’ve tripped over ready to yell at someone, but I have no idea to whom it belongs.
I remind Lincoln to put on his shoes before school and he’ll frantically search the house looking for a matching pair that 1. Fit 2. Are not Crocs 3. Free from dog poop. When he’s near tears because he can’t find a pair he’ll say, “But, I can’t find ANYTHING to wear!”.
“Did you check your closet? You know, that area in your room where you organize shirts, pants and SHOES??”
Blank stare. I might as well be speaking Mongolian.
Shoes in the closet? Nobody would think to look there.
And why would they when they’re just as likely to find a pair on top of the piano.
Picture by Gretchen Koenig