New Boots
There is no joy greater than a little boy's upon donning his first pair of real cowboy boots. Even if he is not a) a Texan, b) a farmer's child, c) an equestrian's child, or d) the son of anyone else who actually wears boots for work or play. It's just this instinct. Boots aren't like sneakers or sandals or those fantastic learning to walk shoes that my older girls wore out (with the completely flexible grippy soles and the soft leather uppers). Boots are substance. Boots are adult. Boots make noise!
For this reason, every boy needs a pair of cowboy boots sometime around the time he begins to walk. Nothing is more satisfying to a tank of a child than the clomp clomp of a pair of brown leather Justin boots. To the soundtrack of squeals of approving laughter from his mom, step mom (me, of course, and...in case you're wondering...yes I squeal, ain't no shame), and favorite big sister, our little guy experienced his first pair of real cowboy boots last night with a joy that I will never forget. He held my finger and toured our hardwood floors with sumo-sized steps. Thunderous noise from a 22(ish) pound fireplug of a boy. And when he didn't feel like stomping around on foot he sat, facing me with a huge, dimpled grin on his face, looked me directly in the eye, quirked an eyebrow up and BANG BANG BANG kicked his feet on the floor to make as much noise as possible.
I wish I could bottle up the joy he shared with us last night. It would cure depression.
All was well soon enough though, as he discovered that they are almost as satisfying to throw as they are to stomp and kick around in.
For this reason, every boy needs a pair of cowboy boots sometime around the time he begins to walk. Nothing is more satisfying to a tank of a child than the clomp clomp of a pair of brown leather Justin boots. To the soundtrack of squeals of approving laughter from his mom, step mom (me, of course, and...in case you're wondering...yes I squeal, ain't no shame), and favorite big sister, our little guy experienced his first pair of real cowboy boots last night with a joy that I will never forget. He held my finger and toured our hardwood floors with sumo-sized steps. Thunderous noise from a 22(ish) pound fireplug of a boy. And when he didn't feel like stomping around on foot he sat, facing me with a huge, dimpled grin on his face, looked me directly in the eye, quirked an eyebrow up and BANG BANG BANG kicked his feet on the floor to make as much noise as possible.
I wish I could bottle up the joy he shared with us last night. It would cure depression.
As he began to get too tired to carry the boots on his feet, it was time to take them off. Too much of a good thing.... he practically wailed as the mean grown ups took his big boy boots.
All was well soon enough though, as he discovered that they are almost as satisfying to throw as they are to stomp and kick around in.
And last night illustrated more than ever my long-held belief that every boy needs a pair of real cowboy boots.
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