Froggy Boots and a Pink Terry Towel

Photo by Daniel James via FlickrHe wore those green froggy boots and the pink towel everywhere we went, the pair of emerald amphibians staring blindly at the sky with their unseeing black pupils against yellow sclera. The towel hung down, a cape, fastened around his little tan neck with a too-large safety pin. Off to the grocery store to buy PopTarts and potatoes--froggy boots and a pink towel. To browse through the books at the library--froggy boots and a pink towel. With bright blue shorts and a Star Wars shirt--froggy boots, up to his calves, his skinned knees exposed, a frayed and tattered pink terry towel flapping along impressively behind him.

My husband hated those boots. Every time we'd pile in the car, we'd have the discussion. 

"Does he have to wear those boots?"

"He loves them," I'd say. "He's only four." 

"He can wear them to play in the woods."

"He's four. Four will be over soon," I'd say. I'd resist the urge to send the boy inside, make him change into sensible sandals, leave the towel in the bathroom, folded under the sink. 

They didn't hobble up to my husband, those little old ladies who once had fours of their own. They came to me, crooked and bent, their eyes alight with recollection. 

"Those boots," they'd giggle. "That pink cape. He's a little superhero, isn't he?"

"He is," I'd say. 

"You made my day," they'd tell me, patting my hand, their skin so warm and surprisingly soft. 

I am not old, but four is long ago. How tall he is now, how he towers above me. He can reach the top shelf that I cannot reach. His hugs are huge. He kisses the top of my head. He wears brown Merrells that go with anything.

My hands are soft, too, and beginning to spot.

There are days, I think, when I need a smile.

When I could stand to see a superhero in the produce aisle.