This is not a shoe blog: The best shoes always return to you

Long before I turned a corner of my home into a cubicle, I worked downtown, just around the corner from three shoe stores. THREE! SHOE! STORES!

I bought many pairs that were ridiculously uncomfortable, launched me from earning a salary to getting disposable income deposit into my checking account every two weeks, and eased the misery of working for a nonprofit. Among those shoes purchased to justify my swanky downtown professional existence in a dusty building with a squeaky elevator that always smelled like hot dogs, was a pair of beautiful, plum-colored suede shoes. They tied with a big black grosgrain bow and made me feel like a flapper when I pulled them over black, black tights and with a flitty black chiffon dress.

I adored those purple suede lovelies and it pained me to add them to the consignment bag last year when I purged 42 pairs of shoes from the plastic tubs under my bed. I hadn't worn them in years when I said goodbye to them. As pretty as they were, their time had long past.

Those shoes -- like my blue shark skin (seriously, real shark skin) Mary Janes from first grade, my granny boots and combat boots and first pair of pink knee-high leather boots, and more recently, my red peep toes -- have a special place in the closet of my heart.

That's why I gasped a little when I saw them again, only now updated and higher heeled and designed by Diane von Furstenberg and even more fabulous. So, so pretty.

And since I am certainly not above a good knock-off (or at least a really good alternative), I also am delighted to see the spirit of purple suede past alive in these booties by a very highly regarded designer at (shhh) Payless for a fraction (this is about shoes, kittens, not math) of the price.

Either would be adorable with thick tights, or a fitted wool or sweater dress, or even with jeans. And I am pretty sure one of those pairs is going to be on my feet very soon.

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Happy birthday! You are now a handful

My sweet, sweet, silly, sensitive, crazy-smart boy,

You are asleep in your bed right now, wrapped in Star Wars sheets, propped up by a pillow that says, "May The Force Be With You." You are already five-years old.

You started acting very five several months ago, asking even more sophisticated questions, unable to keep yourself from climbing everything you can hook a toe into, drawing intricate scenes with markers and pens, rocking out in the back seat, getting leggier and looking less and less like a small boy.

Sometimes, it startles me. An expression will spread across your face and I catch a glimpse of what you will surely look like when you are a man. You share a sage insight or race past me and I wonder where the time and unsure toddler have slipped away to so quickly. 

Other times, I feel you perfectly nestled in my lap or watch you fall into the arms of your friends or see the concentration followed by bliss on your face as you slowly, surely read a word. In those moments and with each new adventure, I know you are becoming more and more yourself.

And that leaves me with a heart that is overwhelmingly full and thinking, "Oh, how I love this boy."

It is not always easy. Growing -- and growing up -- can be hard. You are precocious and you push boundaries. You wholeheartedly believe that we are a team, but this also means you have a hard time being told no. You are working out some very adult stuff. But when it is hardest, when I am exhausted or weepy or feeling stumped or scared, I pull back the camera and see that we work together in the way we always have. No matter how our lives or address or vocabulary or dreams have changed, they way we are is very much the same as it was when it was all fresh and new.

Tonight, you are feverish and restless in your bed. Your head is sweaty and your body is entwined around a giant stuffed monster truck in much the same way it once curled up on me to sleep. Your whole body could fit between my palm and bend in my elbow then -- a million years ago, just yesterday.

Being sick isn't a great way to spend your first day being five. But just as on the most spectacular days and in the most tearful times, I will make my way through your room in the dark, kiss your forehead, place my hand over your beating heart, and whisper that I love you the most.

And in all the world, across these years, I do. Oh, how I do.

A look back on Lil E when he turned:

Four

Fwee

Two

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Almost

My son is with his father this weekend.  After three weekends with me, I thought that we both would welcome the time. Instead, I felt the same pangs as I did in the early days of sending him off for visitation, the same pangs I feel when he leaves for vacation.

Tomorrow, my boy turns five. And I will not be there to snuggle him and cover him in kisses in the first few minutes of his birthday.

I will see him, yes. We will have the afternoon and evening together to celebrate and it will be wonderful. But it was hard to send him off as a four-year old knowing that he would come back to me five-years old. It is fair, the way our time has been divided. It will all be fine as soon as I hang the sign on the door, pull the ice cream cake out of the freezer, tie balloons on the door handles, and wait for the doorbell to ring.

What I have now are just growing pains. I am sure they will return again. There's kindergarten and sleepover camp and high school and college and all kinds of adventures ahead. So it's good to know that they can be soothed with prayers said over the phone and yoga and reminders of just how lucky we are.

For the past few weeks, Lil E has had growing pains of his own, insisting that he would not be turning five. Every few days and whenever we talked about his birthday plans and party, he would saying matter-of-factly that he would be happy to celebrate but that he would be turning four again.

We talked and talked and talked about it -- or at least, I tried. And then I finally shrugged my shoulders and smiled and said, "OK, four it is."

Four had been, after all, a very good year for the boy. A wonderful, hilarious, hopeful, stretching year.

The only time he gave in to his upcoming age was when my mom said she guessed she'd have to return the toys that she bought for him that were clearly marked "For age five and older."

"OK! OK!," he conceded. "I guess I will turn five after all."

We laughed and he shrugged his own shoulders and it seemed like the birthday would go on as planned. Until a few days later when the insistence started all over again. Again, I told him that was fine, that four would be just fine.

Perhaps spending some time with his dad and grandparents has eased some of his resistance to turning a year older. I'm sure the presents and squeals and attention and excitement haven't hurt either. Whatever it is, he sounded calm and happy on the phone tonight. Just after we thanked God for Star Wars and Legos and Scooby Doo and chocolate ice cream, I said goodbye to the boy so determined to not turn five tomorrow.

"Good night, four-year old," I whispered into the phone. "I love you."

"Good night, 37-year old," he whispered back. "I love you, too!"

And with that, there was silence. With that, I think we both said farewell to four.

It's not easy. For either of us. But after ice cream, I'm thanking God that we're growing together tonight.

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