The appointment started out fine. Edward picked out some toys to bring into the room while I hung up our coats and put our boots on the mat by the door. The chiropractor put all of my pieces back into place and I could move freely again without any tightness or pain in my back. By all accounts a successful visit. All that was left to do was pay them and schedule my next appointment.
As I was at the counter trying to accomplish these tasks, I heard the door slam and noticed that Edward was gone. Since he does that sort of thing all the time (Edward loves doors) I was not too worried. The door only led out into a hallway, and as long as I could hear his feet flapping up and down the carpet I felt that my time would be better served at the counter finishing up, rather than chasing him down at that exact moment.
I did everything I needed to do, and as I was walking away from the counter a short, middle-aged woman came out from the back, having finished with her appointment as well. She looked around the waiting room, and then said aloud, “Where are my boots?” Instinctively I looked over to my own boots and saw them where I had left them, right next to Edward’s boots. Except, hadn’t I seen Edward put on his boots? I couldn’t remember.
Suddenly the door flew open, slamming against the wall, and Edward raced into the waiting area in some very fashionable boots that definitely did not belong to him. “My boots!” cried the woman, staring at my son.
“Edward,” I said in a stern voice, “those are not your boots.”
“Deez MAH boots!” he replied loudly.
“No, your boots have Woody and Bullseye on them. These are someone else’s boots.” He leaned over to check the sides of the boots, not believing anything I was saying. “Look, your boots are right over there!” I pointed desperately at his actual boots, while trying to make a face at the woman that would convey my sincerest apologies and prove that I was not a weirdo boot thief.
“Yes, those are my boots,” the woman said, far more sweetly than she was required to. Edward, I guess realizing that they really were not his boots, and coming to terms with the fact that he was not going to be allowed to keep them, removed the boots, and then threw them at the woman with a loud and angry grunt.
“Ha ha,” I said. “I don’t know what has gotten into him today!” I made some more sheepish faces and quickly shoved Edward into the correct boots. That’s when we ran for it.
I guess these are the kinds of things you have to deal with when you take your two-year-old out in public, am I right? But the days of stories like these are almost behind me now. Luckily for me he will turn three on Friday, and then he can finally start acting like an adult. That’s what happens when they turn three, right?