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Home › Diaries › Diane's › December 21, 1999

Diane's Diary Entries

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December 21, 1999

If this were a psychiatrist's office and you were laying on couch preparing to share your current state of mind, and I were going to attempt to assess your mental state, I would probably begin by saying one word that, in an instant, would tell me all I needed to know about you. The word, you ask? Shoes. This one word, said to any mother in any country, would make her face cringe, her eyes water, and drool begin to unknowingly seep from the corners of her mouth. In a instant she would be transported back in time vividly reliving that one sunny morning when she woke and innocently enough tried to make her way to the kitchen for that morning cup 'o joe. On her way she blindly trips over one strategically placed wing-tip (size 11 1/2) and lands on its mate with the other knee. Or perhaps that "dirty word" reminds her of the countless times she has bent over to pick up the same pair of Nike's that a certain seven-year-old just simply had to have, but he didn't mean to have them in the closet. Young or old(er), why is it so difficult for a particular gender to remove shoes and put them where they belong? I mean, let's face it. Common sense would dictate that those same shoes just might be needed again at some point in the morning and the shoe patrol just might be too darn busy feeding babies, getting clothes out, washing the dishes, letting the cat out, and whatever else is involved in being a mother ... oops, I mean shoe patrol. Here's a hint to those of you who walk in from work, school, etc. and carelessly fling your shoes from your left and right feet: you have two feet which require two shoes. It boggles the mind when you think that there are people among us who can design bridges, create computers, and they can even put a man on the moon, yet somehow still can not manage to put two shoes together in the same place.

It must be a part of that particular gender's DNA, for it affects even the youngest among "them." The other day while driving and humming a snazzy version of "We Are The World," I began to feel several kicks into my seat which jolted me forward. Before the words "Stop kicking my seat" could leave my lips I was pelted in the side of the head with a lovely cream colored stride-rite sneaker. My son's shoe landed precariously on the dashboard now happily separated from its mate. Amazing feat (no pun intended) for a 15 month old. It truly must be gender specific for I always know where my shoes are; the left and the right. They are lined up neatly next to each other in the closet and I can even recall in what order. Fifty some-odd black shoes to the left, a few brown in the middle, one pair of running shoes and bleached-out Keds to the right, and the snoopy slippers from college (minus ears and one eye) on my feet. Before bed on any given night, the last deed to be done is corralling all the left shoes and reuniting them with their mates. Off to the closets they go. If this is not done, in the morning the inevitable cries of a specific gender will be heard, "Where's my other shoe!" After all, they do need two shoes to cover their mis-matched socks!

Until next week, my best to you!

Diane

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