Boots

I've mentioned it before...  But I feel that I need to apologize.  Apologize to all of the little heartbroken Oklahoma children who have not had any snow to play in this winter.  The boys actually have snow boots this year, and I am certain that is the reason there has been no snow.  It's my fault.  All my fault.

Well...

Technically, it's all my Mother-in-Law's fault.  She bought them the boots.  Yup.  All her fault.

We did get a light half inch or so last week.  Max was so excited to play in it.

It's the boots!!!

Boots. Boots and gloves.  Boots keep snow away, and gloves and mittens hide whenever it finally does snow.  I do actually have gloves for the boys.  I do!  They are always where they should be in the closet...  until it snows.  Then they disappear and I break out the socks.

And now on a totally different, but boot related topic...  it's February.  That's about the end of wintery-ness.  If you've been reading So Many Joyful Noises for long, you may agree that we should probably talk some more about boots.  Well, my boots.  And the horrible emotional scars that they have left.

I have a surprise for you, Gentle Reader...  You're a very lucky ducky.  I have...

the picture.  That's right.  THE picture.


What?  What is she talking about?

Read on, Gentle Reader.  Then tune in tomorrow...

Oh, yes.

..........................................................................

Moon Boot Memories

I was in the second grade.  It was Colorado.  In the winter.  Cold.

My teacher was Ms Smith.  I adored her.

But that isn't what this story is about.  This is a story about a Mother's betrayal.  Heartache.  Childhood trauma.  Ugly foot ware.

There was a girl named Jamie in my class.  She was very pretty, very good at making rabbits out of construction paper, and had lovely lavender boots.  They were the perfect shad of lavender, (not too purple you know, not too showy) with white faux fur peeking out from the top.  So pretty.  I wanted to be her.  Party because her name was Jamie (why couldn't I have a normal name like Jamie, or Susan?), partly because she could make such fantastic bunny rabbits...  But mostly because of those lavender boots.

I did not have lavender boots with white fur trim.  Oh, nooo...  They would have looked way too good with my lavender corduroy pants and stripes and hearts sweatshirt.  We couldn't have Mariah looking fashionable.  heck no.  She's got to wear...

Moon boots.

Moon freaking Boots.

They were neither pink, nor purple, and they were not adorned with unicorns.  That means they were ugly.

These moon boots were not even for girls.

Are you ready for this?

They were boys' Moon Boots.

Boys' Moon Boots.

My mother made me wear boys' Moon Boots.

They were red and blue.  obviously for boys.

I was not a boy.  I was a girl.  Who  cared about such things as a well crafted bunny rabbit, lavender boots with fur trim to match my lavender corduroy pants, and having a normal name.

Wearing boys' boots was mortifying.

Horrific.

Child abuse.

And even worse...

Hold on to your hats...

My mother.

made me wear.

Boys'.

Moon Boots.

On.

Class Picture Day.

I know.

I don't remember how cold it was that day.  I don't remember how much snow was on the ground.  The only thing I remember is that it was class picture day, and I was wearing boys' shoes.

"Your boots won't even show!"  My mother insisted.

Well.  That was a big.  fat.  lie.

I was placed by the photographer in a chair right in the front row.  With my big, ugly boy feet illuminated like a blue and red neon sign reading, "I wish my name was Jamie." for all the world to see.

I do not even need to tell you how I felt about it.

Weeks later when we received our copies of our class photos, the expression on my face mirrored the disgust and anguish in my gut.  My head was cocked to one side, and I had a kind of snarling, pouting look on my face.  Not attractive.

I was so unhappy with, not only my big ugly boy boots, but now my ugly face as well, that I scratched out my face with my fingernail before I even got the photo home.

In hind sight...

di-sturb-ing.

Can you imagine your child bringing home a photo of herself with her face scratched out?

creepy.