fuzzy memories, extra wide

For as long as I can remember, feet have been a part of my identity. To put my way through college, I was a shoe-salesman.

When I was younger, I was pretty pigeon-toed (which I just learned is also called "false clubfoot, egads). It was prett significant, to the point where I had to wear corrective shoes. I don't remember much about them, but they were sturdy. My older sisters lovingly chided me about them, and called them my "clod-hoppers."

I don't think I knew what clod-hoppers were (I still don't, I resisted the urge to wikipedia them as a sign of solemn protest to the afflicted), but I knew that I was the butt of a joke. My sisters stopped calling them clod-hoppers when they were assaulted with three pounds of solid rubber.

After I graduated from my hot orthopedic shoes, I used to proudly proclaim my triumph over being false clubfooted. I even confused the severity of the condition with some other, more real parts of my childhood.

Before I was born, my older brother Tim was hit by a car. The accident left him confined to a wheelchair, and he did have shoes, or some type of leg braces with a metal bar in between the shoes connecting at the arches of the feet. Somehow, in my post-clod-hopper daze, I was convinced that Tim's shoes with the metal brace were actually mine, to cure me of being pigeon toed. I used to tell people that my condition was so severe that I had to wear a metal bar between my legs. People used to feel really sorry for me, and impressed that I had overcome such severe disadvantages in life.

All these feelings came swirling back to me as I look at George's adorable feet. Last week George and Ashley were visiting Grandma & Grandpa Potter, and Grandma took George to a very nice children's shoe store. I'm ashamed to admit, but we had essentially been confining George's poor feet to some crude brogans in what can only be described as modern day foot-binding.

Ok, it wasn't that bad, but... he was wearing shoes that were too small for him. Poor little guy. At the shoe store they measured George's feet and out came the results: 6.5. Extra wide. I don't know what it is, but the "extra wide" rings through my head, summoning images of pigeon toes, metal braces, John Elway, etc. It's likely that this is just common sizing issue with little chubby feet.

But what if it's a part of his identity for his entire life? What if he always has to wear birkenstock sandals? What if he's an incredible swimmer because of his flipper like feet?

I'm under no illusion that having extra wide feet will be something George has to think about beyond toddlerhood, or that it's even atypical. But, I do like the idea of learning little things about this guy, things he comes into the world with. Things he can't change. Maybe he'll invent a story that explains his extra wide feet, and how he went on to become a world class tap-dancer, or soccer player?

I hope I get to discover more of these things about him - and I hope for his unborn siblings sake, they don't tease him about it or they might find themselves on the receiving end of toy-projectile.

Be proud George. Stand tall. Stand tall on those extra wide feet of yours. I love you buddy.