Because Harry finally outgrew all of his 6-12 month Robeez (meaning he could finally wear these 12-18 month cuties from his grandma), we decided to buy another pair of Robeez-- you know because loafers only go with so many things (actually, they go great with the 95% of Harry's wardrobe that is khaki, plaid, or seersucker, but still, a kid needs variety.) When I was little, I had a pair of white leather sandals from Stride Rite that I remember really liking, so I decided to give it a a whirl-- I have been in before to browse the huge wall of Robeez, and I liked what I saw.
Today, however, Stride Rite was a disaster-- shoes flung everywhere, barefoot children crawling on benches, strollers piled high with packages and abandoned between rows of soft-soled tennies, moms in mom capris and mom Crocs clutching pleather mom bags and running exasperated fingers through their mom hair, pleading with their kids to calm down and wait for the "nice lady" to help them.
Harry and I picked out a pair of blue Robeez with pirates on them (because pirates crack me up, and I'll buy anything with a parrot and a peg leg), but I decided what the hell, I might as well get his feet measured and maybe snag a pair of sneakers, you know for all the sports he plays. After waiting FOREVER, and watching dozens of moms and kids pour into the store (my favorite was a mom/grandma combo wrangling toddlers and sporting really really really fake Burberry and Louis Vuitton purses, respecitvely) and only a couple trickle out, we were finally approached by a harried saleswoman, who told me that Robeez are dangerous with their thin leather soles that you think are perfect for developing arches but are really perfect for stomping on broken glass and rusty nails, and I should go ahead and buy them, if I didn't mind all of the extra tetanus shots and ER bills.
I was all, oh my god, I never thought of it like that. And she was all, yeah, you need to upgrade his shoes, lady. So I asked her to please measure his feet, and she was like, okay, do you have a number? That's when I looked around and noticed that everyone else was clutching paper numbers, like this was the freaking DMV. I apologozed and said I didn't notice the number thing, but I had been there for awhile. Then, Stride Rite lady told me she couldn't help me and I'd have to go to the back of the line. Faux Louis Vuitton offered me her number, making me feel like shit for my silent mocking, but I left, all huffy, figuring I could find baby shoes elsewhere. Maybe Crocs, at the very least.
The moral of the story?
Seriously, Stride Rite, you are not the only place where a mom with too much free time can take her newly walking baby to have his fat little feet measured and stuffed inside overpriced leather shoes with flexible soles. You are not even the only place in my mall. AND by walking out on you, I got to support local business and buy Keens-- baby kicks with environemntal consciousness. So, HA! Oh, and? I am a total spendthrift and would have totally bought the extremely dangerous Robeez AND some sneakers, if only you hadn't insisted on a number and you totally work on comission, so DOUBLE HA!
Harry, by the way, is an excellent shoe shopper. He loved having his feet measured and sitting on the bench while the saleswoman doted on him. He loved wiggling his toes inside the shoes and stomping around the store to test them out. He did form an abnormal attachment to a pair of green Crcos, but I talked him out of them, thank goodness! Here he is modeling his new kicks: