In visual terms, there may have been a case to be made that we were infantalizing our robust little tyrant. He was still walking around in soft soled shoes and he still hasn't had his hair cut (talk to my lovely husband about that) and he is our last child. So you may have thought, and I would have forgiven you for thinking.
But you were wrong.
There were, instead, two very pragmatic reasons why Mister Man still had early walkers.
#1- precisely because he's this large, roly-poly doughboy, he's not the most graceful on his feet. I didn't want him struggling with thick soles.
#2- I never made time to take him to the store. What? We're a little busy around here.
But then he walked right through the soles of his soft bottomed shoes (again...did I mention that these are only from August?) and I knew it was time to stop buying him the slipper-style footwear and get him sized for real shoes.
Dude's a behemoth. A size 7.5 extra-wide behemoth, and it's a good thing I had his feet sized professionally, because...seriously. You may call him by his full name, Little Man Clodhopper, now.
Little Man loooves his new shoes. To be fair, he loves shoes in general and he loved his old shoes. Last night when I was snuggling L in her bed and reading her two bedtime books, he barged in her room to give me my silver sandals. He adores reuniting a pair of shoes with their master, and when I asked the shoe store to throw away his old shoes, he started screaming and grabbing and moaning in a bereft sort of way: Nooo! No-oo! Nooo-oooooo no no noooo.....! He left the store walking in new shoes and embracing his old ones.
But he really loves the new ones, and won't agree to remove them when we're home. So he clomps all over everything. It looks pretty much like this:
I have no idea what that caption says, but the imagery is (mostly) entirely accurate.
Except his curls are blonde and we don't usually dress him up in skirts. It can't be avoided entirely when L is around, but we try.
So there he goes, clompclompclomping through the house, reveling in the noisy destruction his Power Toes can effect. Dyum dyum! he yells, which of course means "jump jump" as he catapults himself into the kitchen. DYUM! he squeals as he executes a landing that would make Mary Lou Retton proud (if she were drunk and suffering a severe inner ear infection). A cracker fell to the floor? 'I will STOMP it!' he thinks, and shows no restraint. The cheese stick he half ate? 'I'm going to test my new treads!' and dyum. And let's just say that his new acquisitions have not been kind to my pedicure.
He's Godzilla in velcro, King Kong in new kicks, Jack of beanstalk fame fee fie foeing with fortitude.
We may need to reinforce our floors.