buttons

Shoes are the bane of my son's existence. In the cold of winter or the cement boiling heat of the summer, my son prefers to have his feet unfettered. He revels in the feel of his bare toes against the elements, even when said elements turn his toes an amusing shade of purple. He basks in the ever-surprising sun-baked burn a bare driveway in August can produce. Worts, slivers, insect bites--- He's endured it all in the name of freedom. This son of mine will even take the time to take his shoes off during the five minute drive between our driveway and the school.

This same son is convinced that buttons and shirts should not mix EVER. Even if said shirt had a T-rex eating a front loader being driven by a light-saber wielding Jedi knight on the front. One button can outdo all graphic coolness. Even if the buttons claimed undying love to even just the concept of being the same vicinity as a shirt, my son wouldn't stand for it. Buttons and shirts are for Cole what interracial marriage was for Americans in the 1930s: unthinkable.

This isn't to say that my son is an intolerable bigot. He's not. He doesn't bat an eye when he sees other kids wearing button friendly ware such as polos or flannel (or as we call them in our house, Sunday shirts). In fact, if cookies are involved, he's been known to actually wear one. Over a shirt, to be discarded at the first available opportunity.

Perhaps it's not so much a hatred of buttons as it is an unwillingness to knowingly strap himself down to anything. I'm pretty sure the kid would wear his boxer underwear as shorts and run around shirtless at school if given even the hint that mom wouldn't body tackle him with socks (the third clean batch of the week, thank you very much... not that anyone is counting).

This is the same kid that told us that the nice thing about hot weather is that you don't have to comb your hair anymore. The sweat does it for you.

There's some dinner time conversation for you.

I can't say that I can't relate. Not about the sweat thing of course (although there were some years in high school where, I swear, running cross country did wonders for my hair), but the desire to walk around in my underwear, unembarrassed. Fortunately, there are some things that surviving childhood does for (most of) us. We grow hair, our skin bulges and retracts, leaving odd fault lines..... in short, I don't really wanna see myself in my underwear, let alone strut around where people can, like, see me.

Someday, my Cole will also know the paralyzing dignity of being an adult. I guess I can give him a few years without the buttons.