As I drove to DSW today, my friend Adel singing and the sun shining, life was so good. Not to mention, in my wallet the $20 rebate coupon from DWS that has been burning a hole in my pocket for months. That sweet baby was mine to play with for the next 45 minutes. Should I buy boots? It's the end of the season so probably a huge sale and oooh so many varieties to choose from... Should I buy some updated espadrilles? I think they're in fashion or was that 2009? Or should I buy something high and sexy for date night? Who am I kidding? I always reach for my flats so I can be ready to run or walk fast. There's a blog title: Why Do Mothers Always Have To Think About Running?
I enter the store, admittedly my heart rate up a tiny bit with excitement, a little spontaneous tune playing in my head. While I'm walking (fast of course), sung to the tune of I'm A Little Teapot... "I am buying shoes that will fit my feet, even when my stomach's out and my butt is full of stale Peeps." Up and down I peruse the long, lovely, dreamy aisles of shoes. Up and down the boot aisle. Nothing. Up and down the new spring styles. Nothing. Up and down the back wall labeled Clearance. Nothing. Back the other direction and up and down the athletic shoes. Nothing. Why nothing? Hmmm... When was my last hit of Peeps? Is my blood sugar low. I'm no longer singing. No spring shoes, no spring in my step. And then, like the walls opening on the Price Is Right, I see the prize. A light shines down on a pair of gray Converse high tops.
My dear Elliott, you have been weighing on my heart since last night's refusal to sign off on the contract. The initial surprise and frustration I felt has long since dissipated. I see that you're hurt as you never wanted this strike and you were, in fact, the first one behind closed doors to say how sorry you were and that you would try and see the clutter and dirty dishes. But now, in the middle of DSW, I see the light. I see the need for me to cross the line to you, olive branch in hand. Actually, I see the need to have a pair of gray Converse high tops be the carrier dove for said branch.
I miraculously find among the stacks, gray Converse high tops in your little size- 13. Will you be a size 14 yet this year? At age 12, you were a size 12. Age thirteen you were a size 13. The shoes the size of a man. The height of a man, now towering over me. The vocabulary and reasoning skills of a man. (The appetite of an army of men.) And yet the heart, still so much a boy and so easily broken. The same maternal instinct and self respect that guided me to the picket line, now guides me to come a bit more to your side.
When you return from school today, at the door of your room you will find my olive branch. I hope that you will see it as it is intended, and not as a bribe. The shoes are yours regardless of how long you continue in your refusal to sign. But maybe, just maybe one day you'll understand that sometimes Mother Knows Best and this was best for our family and yes, me.
I wish the strike would not go on. I'm ready for the rainbow...