I took Q. out today to pick up a new pair of shoes. His "old" pair could hardly be deemed worn. By all appearances, they looks quite clean but the insoles have a little divot where his big toe has left its imprint from his love of running and playing hard. He is a human esperesso bean -- sugary sweet with a touch of bitterness (when angry) and full of energy.
The shoe purchase was uneventful. The salesman measured Q.'s feet and directed me towards the wall with columns of shoes appropriate for this size. I picked out two pairs -- a different color of the shoes he currently has, and a fun pair of Vans with a brown checkerboard pattern. As I placed the first pair on Q. he wiggled and squirmed saying, "Off Mommy, off!" I then moved to the second pair -- the Vans.
"Nooooo!" he squealed, and started crying. "Those shoes, those shoes," he said as he pointed to his old pair.
The salesman brought out the pair Q. wanted and then Q. started to emit a laugh that was a mix of delight and relief. His old shoes, only bigger. Now Q.'s rockin' his favorite Tsukihoshi sneakers.
I sometimes forget that even at his young age -- he's a month shy of turning two -- he still has favorites. Beyond his love of book, trucks, cranes, trains, and all things that make loud noises. He has a favorite blanket. A favorite stuffed animal. A favorite song that I sing to him. Why wouldn't he already have a favorite piece of clothing or shoes too? He's not a baby anymore -- and that moment quickly reminded me that he's becoming his own person, independent and opinionated in his own way.
We left the store, me holding the bag with his old shoes and Q. sprinting away testing out his digs. He stopped, turned around and put his hand out.
"Hold mano, Mommy."
Translated: "Mommy, hold my hand."
Lucky for me, I'm still his favorite mommy.
