Girls and Shoes

I love my daughter, honest I do, but sometimes she just slays me with her worry over my appearance (which is apparently something between homely and hideous). We’ve even had a talk about not saying anything if you can’t say something nice.

In an attempt to see if the kids would like to do one week with me, one with their dad they spent a whole week with him, from Sunday afternoon until the following Sunday after A.’s football game. (Turns out that a week away was a failure for all of us.) I mentioned to M. that I bought shoes while she was at her dads. And the conversation went something like this:

So, I bought some shoes while you were gone.

You bought shoes? ON YOUR OWN?

Umm…yes and no. I was on my own, but I had gone shoe shopping with May-B the day before and she had picked them out.

Oh, that’s ok then. What colour are they, can I see them?

They’re tan, and yes, they are in that bag, you can see them.

Well. These aren’t tan, mum, they’re camel (which, bizarrely enough, was what May-B called them). And I could have guessed you didn’t choose them, ‘cause they’re really cute. But they’re kid size. What are these foamy things for?

They’re to keep the shoes on, because they’re too big for me.

Too big? You’re a freak, mom. And these heels, can you even walk in these heels? Did you even try to walk when you tried them on?

Ok, we’re done here. Go find some chore to do, you little monster.

She may be a monster, but she is my monster.