Where in the Actual Hell Are Your Shoes?
At 7:36am Monday, my youngest hit me with seven of the eleven possible crises that occur before school. Socks fell off somewhere mysterious. Cat puked on backpack. Someone (probably me, but I’m pleading the fifth) forgot to put the ice pack back in the freezer. But the crowning moment—the spicy little chili on my existential breakfast taco—was when my kid asked, deadpan, “Where are my shoes?”
I counted to ten. Silently. Because if I spoke, only expletives would come out. Those shoes were on his feet, in our house, ten hours ago. Where did they go? No one knows. Not the dog (he tried to eat a Croc, but the shoes in question were non-edible, two-day-old sneakers). Not the older sibling (wouldn’t mind, couldn’t care less). Not even me. My IQ drops by half every Monday morning. That’s just science.
We tore the house apart. Like a SWAT team with no plan. Under beds, behind toilets (ask no questions: I have boys), inside the oven—listen, motherhood is a horror film sometimes, and the jump scares are shoes. Clock ticks. Bus ETA: three minutes. Kid looking at me, unbothered, as if he is not about to be the shoeless weirdo at school.
Why Mondays Destroy Souls
Here’s why this hit like a meteor straight to my frontal cortex. Monday is the Reset of Doom. Everything seems possible. Coffee’s fresh. You’re about to slay the week, maybe even brush your hair. But nope. Life is a prank show and your kids are the hosts.
It’s not about the shoes, right? It’s about the never-ending, soul-punching list of things you have to keep track of in your parental brain. Left shoe. Right shoe. Water bottle. Permission slip. Snacks. That stupid science diorama. If any single piece falls out of mental Tetris, everything crashes.
I know, “just be more organized!” Fuck off, Sharon. My organizational system is a sticky note pyramid and a hope spiral. I’m only human. Monday is a tornado. My kid’s disappearing shoes just happened to fly out of it this time.
The Actual Trick That Saved My Sanity
You know what I ended up doing? I stopped looking for the shoes. Like, I just… quit. My kid cried for a minute, and I let him. I forced myself to leave the mess, the missing Nikes, the guilt pile on the floor.
Instead, I handed him the last pair of shoes that fit (sorta, maybe-marginally legal by school standards), and said, “Congrats, you get to be the kid with Halloween skeleton shoes in May. Let’s go.”
Was it a parenting gold-medal moment? Hell, no. But here’s the deal: sometimes letting go of the idea that you have to solve every mini-disaster is the move. My tip? Pick one—just ONE—thing to drop in the heat of chaos. Let a ball hit the floor. Let the universe roll its eyes. You’ll survive. Your kids will, too.
Parenting, Man. It’s Just Shoes.
We both survived. The world didn’t end. When I stopped making lost shoes The Problem of the Month, everything chilled a little. Maybe it’s not about finding some inner zen—but sometimes you have to accept you’re gonna be the family known for odd shoes and messy mornings. So be it.
This is why I pre-pack backpacks at night, even when my body wants to rot on the couch.
The Potty Mouth Panda 