Three years ago, we took the family to my company’s picnic at Huber’s, a family farm about 45 minutes from our home. At the time, I shared my mortification at the fact that we had left Sam’s shoes at home. I have photos of him traipsing through the pumpkin patch, barefoot without a care in the world. I feared I would not be able to show my face at work on Monday; how could I be trusted to perform complex scientific tasks if I can’t even make sure my son is shod for a company outing? We survived, though, my pride a little worse for wear.
I looked back on that day fondly this morning, as we prepared for a trip to Huber’s for the our first company picnic encore since that ill fated trip, recollecting with a smile that crazy stage of life, but thankful we had moved on.
Which is why you can probably imagine my utter disbelief when we pulled into our parking spot at Huber’s Family Fun Park, and I open the van door to see Sam’s bare feet and at the same moment I hear Abby say, “Did we bring Sam’s shoes?” and also at the same moment, as if time and space have crawled to some kind of cosmic stopping point, I realize that, against steep odds, we have done it again, and ALSO realize at the same moment this is likely the last time I will see my coworkers and ALSO at the same moment I realize that I need an updated resume, and ALSO realize, at that exact space-time nexus, that we will need to open a savings account for Sam’s future therapy.
In all honesty, he’s loving it. I, on the other hand, carried him into lunch as if he was injured. Now, I’m walking around tempted to say things like, “Sam, where are your shoes son?! Oh, that crazy Sam!”