Tuesday, October 14, 2014

cowboy boots and faith

As soon as we saw certain little anatomy on the ultrasound confirming all things blue,
 we dreamed of a wild, skinned knee, mud-stomping, boot wearing boy.

Baker delivered all things wild, and skinned knees, and mud-stomping soon enough,
but the boots had to wait.

With Baker's different abilities, he requires some different equipment.

When he isn't padding around on his bare tootsies,
he is clomping here and there in his favorite tennis shoes
(most often New Balance 991s) with orthotics.
I posted more about that here.

Brian and I continued to dream about our boy in boots.
And Baker continued slipping his tiny foot into the big leather trough of his daddy's favorite leathers, pretending, as most little boys do, to be just like daddy.

We prayed, with expectation, for Baker's legs to be strong enough,
his ankles to be sure enough,
his balance to be stable enough to wear boots.

Sounds silly, right?
Praying for Baker to be strong enough to wear boots...but we did it.
Just like we prayed for him to crawl, and walk, and speak words, and drink through a straw, and give a high five, and point, and eat with a fork.
Things that might seem menial, but for us, are full of meaning.

They didn't make their debut when our favorite buckaroo turned two,
or on his fieldtrip to the Barnyard,
but finally, on farmer day, they were pulled out of the packaging, and with care, the tiniest cowboy boots were slipped on Baker's feet, and the receipt was finally crumbled and discarded with the day's trash.

We all rejoiced.

Baker pranced proudly around the house, and Brian and I cheered, like we do.
Silly parents, singing and dancing and hooping and hollering, at something so silly as a boy in boots.


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