Truck Shoes

"Ouchy shoes!" Toby called as I tried to hurry him out the door with his sisters. Stopping to inspect his toes I realized he had a valid complaint. It had been six months since his last shoe-size promotion. Yesterday I found the time to dig out a box of shoes I had been saving for him, hand-me-downs mostly from our former neighbors. To Toby's delight there was not only a practical pair of size 8 tennis shoes, but a size 8 pair of brown crocks that looked like Mater from the Cars movie.

"Oh-ho-ho!" Toby growled, "Truck shoes!" It's hard to describe his manly description of those shoes. It sounded like Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor's "more power" grunt. Something like, "Oh-ho-ho! Man's shoes!"

I wish I could say that he wore them happily ever after. That is what I imagined, but unfortunately, Toby, for some reason utterly inexplicable to me, felt just as compelled to take his truck shoes off as to put them back on. Unfortunately as well, even though they are crocks, he couldn't manage to get them on by himself.

The rest of yesterday went something like this. Toby screams, "Ohhh! Truck shoes! Not working! Need heeeeellllllpppp! Put truck shoes on! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhh! Not working!"

I respond sweetly, "Oh, do you want help putting your truck shoes on? Say 'please.'"

"Pease!" And so I put them on and Toby happily shuffles around the house for thirty seconds until he feels compelled to pull them off and look them over from another angle. Suddenly, Toby realizes the truck shoes are no longer on his feet. Panic stricken he shoves them back on his toes, but they no longer fit his feet! "Ohhh! Truck shoes! Not working! Need heeeeellllllpppp! Put truck shoes on! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhh! Not working!" he cries, fully believing in his heart that his feet will never again be shod in such finery.

I respond, slightly annoyed, "Toby, I just put them on. You took them off. If you want them on, LEAVE them on! DON'T take the shoes off!" as I cram them back on his feet.

"Gank You," Toby smiles happily, wiping his tears with his shirt sleeve. Then, grinning like a chimpanzee with a banana, he shuffles throughout the house for another half-minute or so...until he feels compelled to take the shoes off...and finds himself in need of rescue again...and I lose my patience.

You wouldn't believe how many times this scene repeated itself. Ten? Fifteen? I'm not exactly sure, but I actually had to hide the truck shoes from him! You think I'm cruel, but he got over it, and I got dinner made. I'm telling you, he can't handle truck shoes yet. Maybe when he's older.