Baby Shoes

Today, for Mass, I put my baby in a REAL baby outfit and REAL baby shoes for the first time in his baby life, and not ONE of my friends was there to vouch for me on this. Who’s going to let him know, this second-born son, that I (an ENFP on the Myers-Briggs personality test, meaning: someone who, under stress, could live in a sand shack and wear men’s boxers and not give it a second thought) actually cared what he looked like when he went out. In 8 months of iPhone photos, there is not one documented incident that he will be able to look back on, believing I dressed him with affectionate, motherly care.

But obviously, this isn’t about the baby at all.

We know, we KNOW, I spent eleven precious pre-Mass minutes putting those tiny Chuck Taylors on that chunky, kicking baby not for his own sake, but for the sole purpose (pun) of impressing my friends… who weren’t at Mass today.

As if I couldn’t just throw a blanket on the kid and forgo the cutesy attire. For most of this kid’s life, he’s worn footie pajamas. Footie pajamas to bed, footie pajamas to the park, footie pajamas to the library. Hmm what should the 8-month-old wear today, when the toddler (whom I adore) is screaming about which bowl, yes bowl, he’s going to eat his grilled cheese in for breakfast, yes, breakfast.

Let me think. Oh! Got it! Footie pajamas.

Why would I ever put the baby in shoes, let alone SKINNY Converse sneakers but to impress my friends? He doesn’t WALK! And he has other FOOTWEAR that keep his feet warm (SLIPPERS if you must know, NOT footie pajamas. I’m not a monster!). But today, I dressed him up. Today, I wanted him to feel like we cared, as parents, in the same way we cared for his firstborn brother, who wore shoes all the time because we had the time and vanity to make sure he was adorably trimmed.

Friends, no more. This baby gets the brunt of my ENFP-under-stress (read: two-year-old rearing) actions—external appearance is the first thing to go.

But today, I did dress him. I loosened up the inch-long shoelaces with the patience and persistence of a saint, if that saint had cared more about the appearance of their child than getting to Mass on time. I tied the inch-long shoelaces and refrained from cursing. I yanked the shoes over the ankles, and yanked them again when they were kicked below the ankles precisely 25 seconds later. I searched for one in the yard when my husband yelled from the car, “Where’s his other shoe?!” And finally, I went to Mass, with my boy in his shoes, looking the absolute cutest, looking inarguably kempt. And not one of my friends was there to see it.