96. Yellow Crocs

To start with it was a stupid idea of mine.

He did not need new Crocs, he did not did any shoes at all, he kept taking them off everywhere and losing them. By the community pool, in restaurants, parks, friends' houses, the neighbours' garden ... And he did not care whether they were bright canary yellow hand-me-downs from his older sister or boyish navy blue.

Retrospectively, I should have enjoyed the fact that he did not give a toss about colour coordination.

But I insisted.

I guess it was because I minded my son being seen in canary yellow Crocs. At the beginning I thought they would get dirty and the yellow would fade. But it did not fade, in fact it kept getting flashier.

Maybe I was worried it reflected badly on me. The bad mother Damocles sword thing again, neighbours whispering ... or worse, drunken neighbours shouting it out loud at parties.

'Let's go shopping!' I announced cheerily at breakfast. I very quietly whispered in my husband's ear 'we can get him some new shoes.' My husband nodded in sympathy. He did not like the yellow Crocs either.

I was expecting a reaction from our son any second now. It came.

'I don't need any shoes.' He said. 'The yellow ones still fit good.'

I sighed but ignored him. So did my husband. Bad parenting all round. 

Our son did not mind this as ignoring us was his default setting. He slipped the ugly clogs onto his (probably dirty) feet and ran outside ...

Everyone was busy getting ready for the outing. Everybody except the one whom it mattered for. After trying the proper parenting methods known to me (which did not work) I decided to bribe him with an ice-cream. It worked. We gave up on the getting changed into a different tee-shirt and pair of shorts. The abominable neon shoes he could keep on as this was to be their last outing.

My husband and I understood each other perfectly well. He could walk a few steps ahead - or behind- mingle with the crowds of grubby kids in that mall and no-one would know he was ours. 

I had a plan: get in shop, pick blue shoes off shelf, get right size, slip on child while child is picking his nose or pinching his sister, slip on second shoe, shove smelly grotty old yellow things in plastic bag and go.

Easy as 1, 2, 3.

So, in shop, I shout at that kid over there in a nonchalant cool voice.

'Come on, kiddo, just sit try those on for me. You'll get an ice-cream.' At least in here someone thinks this is good parenting as the shop assistant beams at me and says to the dirty kid trying the shoes on.

'Nice! Ice-cream! What flavour?'

My son looks at us as if we are a pair of retarded adults. He puts the shoes on and sets off on a mad run around the shop, heading towards his sisters to rugby tackle them. The shop assistant is laughing his head off. My husband is on his strict discipline last century methods. I am at the till paying.

'Good running! Shoes fit perfect! Ha ha ha! Chocolate maybe? You get chocolate for me? Yeah?' I try my best to see the funny side of things and smile at the shop assistant who is still shouting at us as we leave the store.

'Strawberry? Ha ha! Mango? Mango is good, very good! Ha ha!'

My husband is giving a lecture to our son who is standing there, head down, looking sheepish and regretful. I go past them (I am old school too, scolding cute mummy's boy is a dad's job) and head for the nearest bin. 

Now that he has been properly told off and that he is truly sorry to have embarrassed his parents in public, he needs the loo. His father sighs and takes him. Us girls sit on a bench and watch the crowds go by, waiting and looking forward to the day ahead of us. 

Across the large circular empty area, I can see the bin and I stare contentedly at it. A little boy comes up to it and stands on his tiptoes to peer into it. I smile, amused. Children at that age are so inquisitive. This little one is probably tiring his parents out being that curious of the whole wide world. I reflect that it is good to take time to watch passers-by. The little boy then sticks his hands into the bin. I am not amused any longer. I am both horrified and disgusted and thinking: where on earth are the parents?  The boy is now pulling a bright yellow item from the depth of the bin. Shoes! Crocs! He is putting them on! Oh my word! This boy is my son! My own son, my sunshine, my baby-boy is rummaging in the trash of the shopping mall!!!

I am going to faint on that bench. No way I can come alive and well at the other side of this traumatising experience. The inquisitive little boy is now taking the new shoes off and about to throw them in the bin! Just in time, his father seizes him and grabs him by the scruff of the neck (old school, told you) and drags him to where we are sitting. The girls are in stitches, laughing their heads off.

My husband, keeping hold of his son (who says nothing but has a face like thunder) tells me:

'This young man is coming home with me in the car.'

Looking at him, he adds:

'He is grounded for the entire weekend. You go shopping with the girls and get a taxi home. Enjoy.'

And off they went.