Magic Shoes

Over this past weekend we celebrated Gonzo's grandmother's 85th birthday. Four generations crammed into her small rowhome for the festivities. Small children ran amok, jumping on beds and twirling in circles on the postage stamp-sized deck out back. Tweens and teens sprawled out on the floor text messaging their friends, together, yet each in their own separate world. The men congregated around the television to cheer on their favorite team in the midst of a pennant race. The women hustled and bustled around the kitchen, preparing food for the masses and reliving memories of the past. A good time was had by all.

As the celebration began to wind down, I made the necessary preparations for the long car ride home. Gave the standard 5 minute warning, nursed Little Fella, changed his diaper, put the girls on the potty, gathered blankies and loveys, put jackets on, re-packed the diaper bag that somebody had rifled through looking for snacks, said our goodbyes.

"Oh, no!" wailed Kate. "My shoes!" I glanced down at her bare feet. Damn that child and her missing shoes.

"Do you remember where you took them off?" I asked hopefully. She wandered toward the deck, where she had spent much of the afternoon. The shoes were not there. Instead, Kate became enthralled, yet again, with watching the traffic light a few blocks away. I knew that tearing her away from the glorious traffic light would be next to impossible, so I continued the quest on my own.

Every nook and cranny of the house was searched. The shoes were hiding in a remote corner under the bed in one of the three bedrooms. With a sigh of relief, I gathered them together and presented them to their rightful owner who exclaimed, "They found me!"

"They found you? Oh, they must be magic, " I replied with a tiny bit if sarcasm.

Kate's eyes grew wide. "Magic shoes, " she breathed and put them on. Bidding farewell to the traffic light, she turned and walked into the house, to the front door. Magic shoes, indeed.