With eyes as bright as branding irons, he solemnly announced his ambitions; then he went to find his cowboy boots.
I followed him through the house with a tickle in my throat. As he rustled through closets and rummaged under beds, the tickle became a lump. Somehow I would have to break the news.
"The thing is, Matthew," I began gently, "you don't have any cowboy boots."
The boy was absolutely stricken, and I knew from the look on his face that he thought any illusions I'd ever had of becoming a "perfect parent" were just as farfetched as his aspirations to cowboy-hood.
Despite the fact that I'd spent the three years since our son's birth diligently dispensing multiple vitamins, Band-Aids, and bedtime stories, I had failed him by not providing the kind of footwear he needed to saunter down the dusty dreamland trails of his chosen role model, "Wild Bill Hiccup."
It didn't matter to Matthew that I was a charter member of Who's Who Among Buyers of Pampers, that I owned more empty, baby food jars than Gerber, or that I had recently perfected a foolproof method for de-lumping Cream of Wheat. The fact remained that there was not one pint-sized pair of rawhide boots anywhere in our home.
My would-be cowpoke was not comforted in the least by the knowledge that his chest of drawers was filled with cute, little western blue jeans bearing miniature designer labels and man-sized price tags. And it meant absolutely nothing to him that his toddler bed was the exact replica of a covered wagon.
He was slightly impressed when I pointed out the tiny picture of Yosemite Sam adorning each of his sneakers, but suggestions that he wear his snow boots were met with a frosty glare.
I couldn't even appease him by sprinkling Western Family brown sugar on Texas grapefruit for his lunch. He wanted cowboy boots, and he wanted them yesterday!
So Matt-Matt continued to search, his chubby bare feet pat-a-patting the floor, as he ransacked two toy boxes, the clothes hamper, and even the refrigerator in his single-minded quest. Like a misplaced horse-shoe, the corners of his mouth pouted downwards in a wry grimace.
Then, quite suddenly, he opened a drawer and smiled. If he couldn't find cowboy boots, he'd settle for "policeman socks."
"But what are policeman socks?" I asked, the lump in my throat threatening to become a boulder.
Matt looked up at me, his eyes like stars in the shadow that had darkened his face the morning through.
"Policeman socks?"
he said. "They're blue."
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| Matt looked up at me, his eyes like stars.. |
