Mercy For My Shoes
My four year old is destined to become a judge. He already has a keen sense of justice. Or at least a better sense of mercy than I do. Yesterday I could not find my shoes. I had gone up and down the stairs and searched every room of the house at least three times. I was managing to keep my grumbling humorous so as to hide the real anger that was mounting inside because I had a four year old following me and offering to help me in my hunt. But the volume and frequency of my complaints were growing even as I kept them light hearted on the surface, since I had impressionable little eyes and ears watching me. But we were eager to out the door and the delay in finding these shoes was delaying us, and I was getting acutely frustrated. (A scene I hope is not limited to our home?) In the end, my shoes were found – in the first floor coat closet – with all daddy’s shoes, right where they belong, just under some other shoes. As I went to couch to put them on, my little boy behind me, I was eager…
