Dave and I recently found ourselves disagreeing about whether or not Meg's shoes fit her. When I dressed her, I was able to get her feet into her size 3's with no problem. Well, okay, it was a little bit of a problem. It took some time, some shoe-lace loosening, and some TLC. But I just figured, "Hey, getting shoes on a baby is never easy. Just call me a shoe-wrangling Mama--I'm gonna get these shoes on her feet, and she's gonna like it!"
Not so my dear husband. Every time he attempted to shoe our daughter, it was, "Cara, I don't think these fit her." And, "Cara, these seem awfully small." At which point I would smile to myself in my knowing, womanly way and reply in my most gentle and patient tone, "I think they're okay, Love. I was able to get them on just fine yesterday."
After several episodes like this, I finally said, "Well, we do have a pair of size 4's that we could try if you think she's ready for them." You see, we have been gratefully living off the charity of another family whose third daughter, Rachel, is about 6 months older than Meg. They are not planning to have any more children, so when their little one outgrows something, off it goes to the Wilcoxes. I had just received a new bag containing a pair of gently-used, white, size 4, baby boots. I dug them out and delivered them to Dave, who put them on Meg and pronounced them "much better."
Except that the next day, they weren't much better. In fact, Dave was saying the same thing all over again. "Cara, these still seem awfully small. Are you sure that 4 is the right size for her at this point?" Sigh. As a matter of fact, I wasn't exactly sure. I mean, it's not as if we had ever had Meg's feet measured--we always just moved up to the next size when it seemed like the current shoes were getting too small.
Fortunately, at that very moment we were preparing for a trip to our local mall. "Tell you what," I said to my husband. "While we're there, let's stop at Stride Rite and have them measure her so we know for sure." I spoke these words, of course, without a trace of condescension, although I had little doubt about who had the better read on Meg's feet-needs!
At the mall, after Meg had thoroughly explored Professor Frog's Courtyard (a.k.a. "Froggy Land"), we ducked into the Stride Rite, where a Certified Fit Expert (a.k.a. saleslady) waited on us. By this time we had already surveyed the selection of very cute baby-girl shoes and decided that we weren't buying any. (I guess there must be a lot of people in the world who will spend $42 on a pair of shoes for a 15-month old who will only wear them for a matter of weeks, but at this point, we are not among them.) So when the woman asked, "How can I help you?" I boldly answered, "I think we just want to have her measured for today."
I held Meg on my lap while the C.F.E. pulled out her black-and-silver shoe store measurement thingy. I watched with my own eyes while she quickly and carefully measured our daughter's feet. And I heard with my own ears when she announced, "Size 5," and turned abruptly away to serve the next customer.
My David is truly the most gracious of men. He didn't even look at me when the verdict was pronounced; he didn't gloat; he didn't say I-told-you-so-you-silly-know-it-all-girl. He simply helped me load Meg back into her stroller, minus the size 4 white boots in which she arrived.
This Wednesday, as part of our date, the two of us went to Target to choose some more reasonably-priced footwear for Meg. (Dave's comment as we walked through aisles of pink sandals and white Mary Janes with all sorts of flowers and flourishes attached: "Having a girl is weird.") At last we arrived at the baby shoes. After surprisingly little discussion, we agreed on these:
Meg seems to think they work just fine.
The tag attached to the shoes said that one of the features is "alternate closures." I take that as a reference to the fact that they have Velcro instead of laces or a buckle. So, wow. Now our daughter has shoes that fit her feet and go on easily. Sometimes it is good to be wrong.
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