She was walking around the house with an awkward gait.
I could see the spine-curled hobbling was likely the result of the odd angle of her outfit. She'd pulled her skirt up from the bottom hem, folding it around some precious (albeit illicit) cargo and was now hunched over in a protective stance.
"KLUNK, scrabble, scrabble, KLUNK!"
Of course, her oddly comic dance around the room could have been because she was wearing my shoes.
I thought for a second about the tiny lady apples I'd placed on the counter, then shook my head. No, she wasn't carting those around in her skirt. I knew whatever miniature objects she'd concealed in her apparel had to be something she wanted to keep safe from her little whirling dervish of a brother. The petite apples were neither her taste nor his. Plastic was more likely.
As she passed me, she looked up and opened the skirt revealing a litter of miniature doe-eyed, bobble-headed dolls.
As her brother overtook her with his own Franenstein-esque grace of toddlerhood she dipped into her stash and pulled out the green lizard, handing it to him with a playful giggle.
He pitched it over his shoulder and staggered forward some more.
Turns out it was the shoes and not the toys that had him following in close pursuit, flailing his arms and yelling out "Dug be doh! Doh! DOH!" in fierce protest.
Remember this moment, I tell myself. It won't be long until nothing about you is epic in their eyes, not even your shoes.