The Scars We Carry

My friend gave my daughter a pair of glittery shoes her daughters had outgrown when we were over for a playdate a while back. My daughter instantly loved them and wanted to wear them everywhere. When we got home, she wore them inside the house for the longest time. Then she started wearing them out and she'd wear them with pants, with dresses, with socks on her feet, barefoot. She wore them a lot.

The shoes have since lost their velcro stickiness and the little embellishments are coming off the toes, but she wore them a lot and she loved them a lot. 

After my friend gave my daughter the shoes and the kids were playing, I told my friend about my own shoe story because I had once wanted a similar pair. When I was younger, my dad took me shoe shopping. I was looking for a pair of dress shoes to wear to piano competitions and performances. Although not as fast as most, my feet were still growing and I needed new shoes periodically with my 1-2 piano competitions every year and seasonal recitals. At the store, I found a pair of shoes I liked but they didn't have my size in stock. I ended up purchasing a different pair of shoes.

Another time when all of us went shopping, I somehow ended up back in the shoe section to browse. They had the shoe I wanted and in my size. My dad said I could have them since they weren't here last time we came. He put them in the cart and we met up with my mom and my brother. When she saw the shoes in the cart, she started asking questions and getting angry. Why were we buying those shoes? Why did I need them? 

My dad responded by telling her they were the ones I wanted last time but they didn't have my size. Now they had my size, he was going to buy them. Then, they started arguing in the middle of an aisle at the store. My mom would take the shoes and put them on the shelf to the side. My dad took the shoes and put them back in the cart. My brother and I stood awkwardly to the side, not knowing what to do. 

I'm sure other people in the store were hearing and seeing what was happening. In my memory of the event, I vaguely see a person or two behind them as they notice the commotion in the aisle and walk away. Whether or not that is my memory being changed or if it actually happened, I will never know. 

In my head, I remember just removing the box of shoes from the cart myself and setting them aside on a nearby shelf. I remember saying to them I didn't want the shoes anymore just so they'd stop fighting in the middle of the store. I did not get the shoes. I had many pairs of beautiful shoes as I grew up, but none were the pink glittery flats I had eyed as a child and wanted at one point in my life. 

Not the exact ones, but something very similar. 

As parents, we will always shape our children to some degree to become versions of ourselves. Our children have the freedom to take what they want and leave the rest as they grow up and become individuals themselves, but the influence is undoubtedly there. Since then, I've found my own truth in the situation; my mother didn't like the shoes. She didn't like the way they looked, and she didn't want to buy them for me. 

Being a parent myself, I've had to remind myself of both spectrums. I do not buy my children everything they want. But I do think about their requests and sometimes, they get a random surprise or toy just because for absolutely no reason. I hope my children do not have the same scars I do when they grow up. 

I need to write this story into my daughter's journal. I want her to remember the auntie who gave her the glitter shoes she loved as a child. And I want her to remember fondly the joy she had when she wore those shoes. And maybe, someday, she will tell her stories to her own children. 

I got to watch my daughter’s face light up the way mine would have. It’s a different kind of joy. 

*sidenote: my daughter watched me cry as I wrote this blog. she didn't say anything. but part of me is so curious if/what she will remember from this moment*