It’s the little things
A few months ago, my younger son came back to my place wearing flip-flops his dad had bought him. They were the cute, cheap kind you get for a few bucks that you wear out during the summer and then they fall apart right as it’s time to start wearing socks again.
My son loved those flip-flops. In fact, he refused to wear any other shoes–to the playground, to church, to a wedding, inside the apartment.
I hated those flip-flops, because every day he wore them he fell in them. He’s got rows of new knee-scrape scars, and scabs on his elbows, and bruises everywhere from tripping in those flip-flops. (In a particularly tragic event one morning last week we were walking to the switching spot, and he saw his dad and started running, yelling “Daddy is the coole–UH!” and skidded across the pavement. Oops.)
On Friday night as I was getting the kids from their dad, one of the flip-flops broke. Completely, with no hope for repair.
Tears, wailing, gnashing of teeth from the boy. And secret joy at liberation from the bruise machines from me. Until his dad picked him up, gave him a hug, and said, “We can buy a new pair next week.”
If I veto the new flip-flops, then LOD can’t keep his promise to our son. I clearly can’t do that. So instead I’ll just hope we get a cold snap soon and he has to go back into shoes with socks.
I am really wishing I’d told LOD how much I hated those stupid flip-flops so he’d known not to promise new ones.