
I babysat my grandson today. This little soul is the age at which little boys and girls like to play with shoes. The boys I've known have become skilled wearers of shoes both far larger than they are, and (as an aside) with far higher heels than any human should attempt to sprint in. Yes, the boys in my family, at the age of about two years, love to sprint in heels. There, it's out in the open. I don't pretend to understand the need, but need it seems to be.
Today, the little peanut I was caring for sailed forth from the grandparental bed room, wearing grandad's slippers. Black, fluffy, warm things that would fit the feet of several little boys at a time. Then the slippers vanished. In order to locate them, I kept a quiet watch on my grandson. Soon after he crouched for a moment over something beside an armchair, then rose with a cookie in his hand. He ate. Then he returned the cookie to it's designated safe place (this child likes to keep things in place, although 'in place' doesn't always mean 'where they belong'). I moved a little, not appearing to peek. I watched him carefully replace his cookie, with a neat crescent bitten out of it, into ... Granddad's slipper! Gag if you must, but it seemed really cute to me. So tidy (this kid attempted to push the top of my bulging washing basket into tidiness beneath its lid recently and then gave up in disgust, he appreciates order).
This evening I took pleasure in announcing to Granddad, that the slipper he was about to wear had been a child's little treasure trove. He seemed somewhat ... disgusted ... although I'm not sure whether it was the idea of crumbs in the slipper, or the idea of a munchkin eating out of his shoe, that disgusted him most. I just LOVE grandchildren!!