Shoe fly...

Two of my daughters take dance; and with the new school year come new dance classes. This September my 5 year old will take tap for the first time, and my 8 year old, jazz. Both classes require special shoes.

I bought these special shoes earlier this week, when the girls were not with me, hoping both would fit. Neither pair worked out. So today I headed back to the shoe store to exchange them. It was a minor miracle that they had both pairs in the now correct sizes, but they did.

After the trade I was feeling like quite the good mommy. So good, in fact, that I decided I'd just run the jazz shoes over to the dance studio so they'd be waiting for my daughter when she arrived there for her first class.

Little did I know the studio is not open during mid day. The classes all take place in the mornings, late afternoons, and evenings. It was only 2:14. Bad timing.

But I felt determined to leave these well-fitting jazz shoes there for my daughter come hell or high water.

What were my options? I could wait around until the studio opened, which was not really much of an option as I had left the baby with my mom, and needed to get back.

So, option two. How about I ask the nice people in the storefront next to the studio if they'd be willing to hold on to the shoes until my daughter could grab them from her.

What the hell, right? So I open the door and smile my most winning smile at the woman behind the desk. Fabiola.

Fabiola looked at me dubiously. She did not seem to especially like what she saw. I started in on my, "So, I have a bit of an unusual request......" Her look become even more dubious with an added shake to her head. "So there's no way?" I asked prematurely. She kindly pointed out that I never actually got to the request. So I laid it out there, and made sure to ask how late they were open.

Until 5, at the very latest. (Gotta love a woman who leaves work on time.) But it turns out there was no guarantee that my daughter would make it there by 5 pm, so my plan, which she had, in fact, agreed to, was no longer viable. Shoot.

I mentioned that I'd go look for a place outside to hide the shoe box, coyly adding, "unless you'd be willing to walk them over at 5."

Fabiola gets up at this point. She comes around the counter and we venture out together; she has, for some reason (can you say to get the crazy lady out of the office?) decided to help me.

There is no shrubbery against the building. No good hiding places. We near the door to the dance studio. She says, "Too bad there's not a box for packages." Too bad indeed. HOWEVER, there is a mail slot. One of those vertical, open door slots, rounded on both the top and bottom.

I open the box and look at the shoes. They could make it through that slot, I think to myself. I voice this out loud. Fabiola agrees. Plus she agrees that I can once again enter her place of employment to bum another pink sticky on which to write my daughter's name again, so that I can stick a sticky into each shoe. I feel strongly that both shoes be labeled.

I borrow, I inscribe, I place each sticky lovingly in the heel area so the name is clearly visible.

I bid Fabiola farewell. (I'll miss her!)

Okay, here goes. I shove the shoes, one at a time, through the slot. Barely. Then comes a moment of remorse. What if I've done the wrong thing? What if these new black beauties never find their way to my daughter?

Too late now.

I get in my car and slowly pull out, my mind envisioning my wasted $25 and a third trip to the shoe store. But, by Jove, I see a car pull up and park, right outside the dance studio!

I pull the SUV over, illegally, jump out and detail my plight to the driver, who it turns out, does not have a key to the studio. OOPS.

She's a mom dropping her daughter off for class (good luck with that!), who seems to find me somewhat less crazy than Fabiola. She agrees to tell the shoes' story, IF, she and her daughter manage to get into the dance studio.

What more can I do?

Two jazz shoes, neatly labeled, rest safely atop of the studio mail with a fellow mom to voice their arrival.

My job is done. Somewhat shoddily, but done regardless.

Still, I remain wondering if I've succeeded....