Jake has been wearing his beloved pink polka dot boots pretty much non-stop for over a week now.
We have engaged in successful negotiations about removing them for bed time and bath time (for which he even removed his swim diaper the other night, suggesting he is finally over the traumatic poop-in-the-tub incident). But otherwise, on they go — over his footie pajamas, to the alpaca farm where we bought our Christmas tree, pretty much with anything or to anywhere that allows a boy to proudly display his most prized possession.
He picked them out on a family trip to the new REI situated in a nearby suburban complex of shiny box stores still smelling of plastic and glue, condominiums for the type who grow faint-hearted at the prospect of walking more than a block to get a cup of coffee, and the first stadium-seating movie theater in town. (Asheville has lots to offer, just not, regrettably the ArcLight.)
Much as I shuddered as we came upon the brightly lit buildings and manicured intersections of the Biltmore Woods development, I must say I also felt a hush of calm fall over me, not unlike those times during my 1990 backpacking foray through Europe when I’d walk into a McDonalds just to use the bathroom and feel at home. I was even moved to suggest to Mike that we schedule a date night there.
“We could have dinner at P.F. Changs and then see a movie,” Mike said, half-jokingly but mostly agreeably.
Sometimes, it seems, we crave the comforts of consumerism.
Even, apparently, when we are not yet two years old.
After some time spent traipsing along the aisles and charming the very patient employees, Jake stumbled upon the boots. There they were, displayed on a wall of children’s shoes, along with some heavy duty hiking boots and, notably, the “boys” equivalent of the boots he chose.
I pointed out the navy-and-green option just to make certain he was aware of all the possibilities.
“No,” he said, hugging the pink polka dot version to his chest.
“These would match your football shirts better,” I said hopefully. Which, honestly, was my main concern. Gender roles bother me not in the least, but a well coordinated outfit is of great importance. And, yes, Jake prefers to wear a shirt with a football or baseball on it every day. I did not teach him to do so.
Mike came upon us as Jake responded by trying to put the sample pink polka dot boot on his foot.
“He won’t try the other ones on,” I said apologetically. Again, not my gender issue. But Mike’s — you know — a guy, and I wasn’t sure he’d be quite so amused by Jake’s flaunting of convention.
“You like these, buddy?” Mike asked, as Jake made it perfectly clear that it was a ridiculous question. “Should we try them on?” Then, a tad sheepishly because he really isn’t all that caught up in gender conventions either, he added, “Should we try the others too, just to see if you like them better?”
We flagged down a salesperson, a young guy, outdoorsy in the suburban-outdoorsy way of REI employees. And we practically tripped over each other to explain that Jake just preferred the pink boots. It was as if we needed to prove to this 22-year-old stranger than we knew those boots were meant for girls, it’s just that our child didn’t.
I didn’t get the sense the salesperson cared too much one way or another. He certainly didn’t make any untoward faces as he helped Jake try on various sizes in the pink, and he handled the entire transaction with the same professionalism I’m sure he would have shown had Jake chosen a more manly option.
So why, I ask myself, did I recount the story of Jake refusing to try on the navy-and-green boots to his teachers at school the next day? Why does Mike still add this detail when people comment on Jake’s boots? Why am I still recounting the story today?
It is, I think, more complicated than a gender thing. Rather, it seems to be an identity thing. Or, rather, it’s about Jake’s innocent display of how we do, to varying degrees, for better or worse, define ourselves by the things we own.
Continue reading ‘Can a Sense of Self Come with Pink Polka Dot Boots?’
