February 3, 2010
The Purple Boots
The groundhog hurt my feelings this year. Six more weeks of winter! I put on my sweatpants and washed off my makeup when I heard the news.
Two nights ago, it snowed enough to justify building a snowman. Camber and Cortlen were up and out on the front lawn by 7:15am. Kellen sat under the kitchen table with his arms folded across his chest until he realized that I was not going to cave; it was oatmeal or nothing for breakfast.
At the same time that he announced that he was ready to go outside, I remembered that two weeks earlier, I had donated his snow boots to the Salvation Army. Something had taken up residence in them and whatever it was, it wasn't good.
"Here you go," I said, dropping a pair of boots at his feet. "Let me know if you need help getting them on."
My son's mouth gaped open in horror. "I'm not wearing those!" he screamed, pointing at the offensive objects.
The snow boots were purple. And happened to belong to my daughter.
"I'm super sorry," I explained, "But that's all I have right now. You can wear them or wait until Cortlen is done with his."
Instead, Kellen choose Option C, which involved throwing the purple boots into the trash and stomping up to his room in a huff.
I leaned my head out the front door. "Would someone be willing to trade boots with Kellen and wear these instead for a little while?" I asked, holding up the shoes.
Thankfully, Camber volunteered. "I will!" she replied cheerfully.
Kellen was summoned from self-exile.
"You can wear these," I said, holding up the purple boots, "Or those," I said, pointing to Camber's boots.
My gesture of kindness was not well received. Kellen threw himself off the front stoop and into a large snow-covered bush.
I'm not sure, but I suspect that his response may have had something to do with the fact that the boots that his sister was wearing were hot pink.