CLOX

Birdie is tough. What he says usually goes. The last time I was victorious in the power struggle was when I succeeded in prying him off my sore breasts for good. He went from breast feeding to bottle feeding and has not forgiven me since. The latest battle is over appropriate footwear for the first grade. He insists on flip-flops. Winter is coming, and he has to wear flip flops. It is pouring rain, the street drains are flooded with a foot of dirty water, and he is wearing his flip flops. He has PE, is riding a scooter or climbing a rock wall, and he insists: "It is OK! I can wear these!"

At the latest foray to Payless Shoes, Birdie stood horrified before the racks of size-one shoes: "They all have tongues! I do not wear shoes with tongues!"

At REI I purchased Crocs, the silly rubber clogs, hoping for a compromise, to at least have his toes covered while his feet flop around without support. So today he wore them to school, instead of the flip flops. But the morning was not argument-free. No, he does not wear socks, they are too itchy. No, he does not wear shirts that have tags, buttons, a wrinkle or spot of dirt on them. It seems to be a matter of grave principle. A stack of rejected shirts lies in disarray now, just minutes before the first school bell.

"I guess these are ok," he acquiesced once he slipped on the pricey rubber shoes.

"You like the Crocs, good," I said in a friendly way.

"Mom! You are supposed to say CLOX, with an X at the end!" he scolded.

Fine.