"Son," I asked my oldest child today as I was leaving the house.
"Can I borrow your dance shoes, again?"
As I picked up the feather-light shoes several odd thoughts crossed my mind. One was that my son has his own dancing shoes. He's currently taking ballroom dance lessons with several of his friends. I think if you asked me when I was his age that I would one day have a son who took ballroom dance lessons, I probably wouldn't have believed you. Even the thought of dancing made me nervous back in the day. I mean, Disco dancing was dead and break dancing was just hitting its stride back then, and if you can't break dance well, you really shouldn't even try...
Then there's the fact that I'm getting old enough to have a son who wears shoes that I can also wear. To compound the issue, his shoes are slightly big on my feet. He's also a tad taller than me (I blame the lack of hair for the difference...). Without knowing my genetic history, I have no idea if height is something that could possibly run in my family. Who knows? Maybe he'll grow even taller.
I picked up the shoes and took them to rehearsal. They've served me well, so far. It's funny how an object as simple as a shoe can make you think about things.