Stereotype

It has become apparent to me that, no matter what you try to do as a parent to stop it from happening, your child will become the victim of a stereotype. It’s an ugly, ugly thing. But it’s out there, and it happens.

Oh yes. I’m talking about GIRLS AND THEIR SHOES.

I tried to shield her from it for as long as I could, I really did. The last thing I wanted for my girl was for her to become some slave to fashion footwear. But you can’t protect them forever.

My kid? LOVESLOVESLOVES the shoes. She’s got a bazillion pairs of shoes. Ill-fitting. Expensive. Leather. Cheap. Bedazzled. Shiny. Rubber. My kid loves them ALL. There are days when she already has a pair of shoes on and then goes and tries to put ANOTHER pair of shoes on.

Granted, most of her shoes are hand-me-downs, and so they are of so many different sizes and styles and seasons that, at any given time, only a few pairs will actually fit her well. But she does not care. She has SHOES, and she LOVES THEM ALL.

However. Next week, she will be starting a class that will involve organized time in the gym, running and playing games and the like. And so today, I had a look in her closet to see if she has appropriate footwear. It doesn’t specify that she needs them necessarily, but the weather is getting cooler and the crocs and sandals aren’t going to cut it for much longer. Plus, her beloved sandals are getting small enough that her toes are beginning to poke out over the front.

So I did a bit of an inventory today, to see what she had. She has two pairs of almost-new running shoes — actual, real-life runners. They’d be perfect, except for the fact that her feet are about 5 1/2s, so let’s say a 6 would suit her, and these were size 7. They looked like snowshoes on her. She also has a pair of those canvas sneakers with the elastic strap thingy across the top of your foot in lieu of laces, but knowing That Baby, she’d have them off in a second.

So today, it was time to go out to the mall and get her some running shoes.

This is not an easy proposition. Perhaps our mall is just ill-equipped for shoe shopping for small people, but there was not a lot of practical footwear to be had for the under-5 set. There were flip flops galore, and something resembling Ugg boots, and some crazy high-top lace-up canvas version of Chuck Taylor knock-offs… but nothing that looked like a kid could play a game of tag or Duck Duck Goose in them without spraining an ankle or whacking another kid in the head with a flying shoe.

So we went into Payless. They had quite a number of pairs of running shoes for little girls. You know how I know? THEY WERE ALL PINK AND SPANGLY AND COVERED IN PRINCESS SHIT. Every last freaking pair. Pink. And White. And covered in white-bread Disney Princesses. Or, doG help us, that Dora thing.

Sports shoes. With princesses on them.

DOES. NOT. COMPUTE.

I stood, dumbfounded, gazing upon commercial marketing gone absolutely fucking apeshit.

So then I thought, Okay, well, at least they’re sort of like running shoes, right? I mean, they’re made from a leather-like substance and they have rubberized soles and laces and stuff. So I picked up a pair.

THEY COST THIRTY DOLLARS.

THIRTY!!!11!11! For a pair of shoes for a kid who is not even THREE yet!!

Forgive me, but the last time I bought her shoes, Stinkerbelle wore them a grand total of three weeks before she hit a growth spurt and outgrew them. I was not about to spend thirty dollars on what could, very possibly, become in three weeks’ time something that takes up space in her closet.

It was all I could do to refrain from heaving them full-force back at the display.

The woman who was working in the store happened by, and asked if she could help. I stammered that I needed running shoes for my daughter, but…

And it was like she read my mind. She remarked that there was not a lot of choice — at which I blurted out “UNLESS YOU LOVE PINK AND ARE EASILY MANIPULATED BY MARKETING AND OH MY GOD THIRTY DOLLARS MY SHOES DONT EVEN COST THAT MUCH” — and that she didn’t even have anything on sale or in the back to offer me.

“But,” she leaned over and whispered, as if giving away a state secret for which she could be shot on sight if anyone overheard her, “if you don’t mind boys’ shoes there’s this pair for $17″.

She handed me a running shoe. Black and white, with a little red on it. Laces and velcro. No characters. No bedazzlement. Nothing lighting up or playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”.

Real Live Running Shoes. For SEVENTEEN dollars.

I almost kissed her.

Meanwhile, Stinkerbelle sat in her stroller, repeating “WALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKING” like a record that was skipping. But like the record player was starting to overheat, because it was getting increasingly faster and higher-pitched and hysterical.

“I’ll take them,” I said.

I paid for the shoes and gave them to Stinkerbelle. She was enchanted. Moreso by the box than anything, but hey — new shoes AND a box to put them in. IT’S A GOOD DAY.

But I was feeling guilty. My kid wears a lot of hand-me-downs, and here we go out and buy her shoes, and I pick the cheapo boys’ pair. What kind of mom does that? But at least the money I saved on shoes I could put towards her therapy bills later, right?

No. BAD mommy. BAD.

So, we stopped at another couple of stores where there were racks and racks of shoes. But I could not bring myself to buy them. Silver rubber running-shoe-slash-flip-flop combos. Clear plastic flip flops. (Yeah. Size 3s. For a toddler. Who DOES that to their kid?) Crazy-ass thigh-high lace-up sneaker things. All priced in the thirty dollar range.

I couldn’t do it.

Then, in the deepest, darkest, back corner of Children’s Place, hidden away like the crazy old aunty you don’t want friends to know is living with you… were SNEAKERS. Regular old lace-up Keds-style sneakers. Sure, they were rainbow tiger-striped canvas things. But they were SNEAKERS. And they were only TWELVE bucks. And they were in a 20% OFF rack.

I grabbed them.

We paid, and off we went to the car with our unfashionable, on-sale booty. Making sure nobody saw us, so they could not point at our purchases and stare and say “DEAR DOG WHAT HAS SHE DONE TO THAT POOR CHILD.”

We came home, and closed the door. Stinkerbelle plopped down on the floor, and was sitting amid several shoes strewn about the foyer, taking off her current shoes to put on a pair of too-small sandals.

And was hit with a wave of shock and horror. “She needs new winter boots.”

I wonder if moving to Barbados might be in our future.