'Splody Feet



Nothing was more exciting to me than when I birthed a little girl that I could dress like a princess. But, of course, she was going to be all pink, all dresses all the time. So to take her to look over the top, I tried to buy some bows on eBay, but they were expensive!


So, being the genius that I am, instead of spending $50 on pre-made bows, I ended up spending $1000 to learn how to make bows for her. She did end up with 265 bows for her hair, but my excess inventory became quite an issue. You could find me at the Elementary School standing on the corner whispering, "Hey little girls, do you need a bow for your hair?"


It was problematic behavior.


As a bow designer, I continually looked for ways to produce something electrifying and innovative. Then, during one of my flashes of brilliance, I got the idea of creating shoes to match my bows. So I bought some fabric mary jane shoes in my daughter's size and set about blinging those babies within an inch of their lives.


Since Hadley was the (reluctant) Vice President of Research & Development for my design firm (read: sick venture), she got to test and premiere all of my inventions. Being the marketing genius I am, I would take her to heavily populated Mommy Areas, like craft fairs, the mall, and liquor stores. There she was tasked with strutting her stuff, acting adorable, and keeping all creations on her person.


On one particular Saturday, I took Hadley to a jam-packed craft show. This festival had funnel cakes as big as your head and local dance schools performing on a stage. Ever willing to share her Hannah Montana-inspired moves, my girl stood by the side of the stage and began to groove like she had a chainsaw in her underpants.


Just as she was reaching her climactic, you-are-gonna-crap-your-pants-when-you-see-this move, her shoes spontaneously combusted. One moment she was a tiny dancer; the next, she was a kid with no shoe on one foot and mary jane shrapnel on the other. Her performance ended like the final moments of a July 4th fireworks display.


With a defeated spirit, I slunk off to the car with my girl in my arms. The entire trip consisted of a concerned Hadley repeating, "Mama, my shoes broke. Mama, my shoes broke."


I still wonder why the authorities didn't intervene on behalf of my child.


I know that I am not the only one this has happened to because my grandmother caused a wardrobe malfunction with my mother. I need confessions, ladies!


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