When all the shower gifts were opened and the guests had gone home, I collapsed on a sofa with the guest of honor to eat one last cupcake and rub her feet.
Five weeks from the due date for the birth of her first child, my daughter ó who once, as a teenager, wouldíve gone off like a car alarm had I dared to touch her feet ó didnít seem to mind.
Becoming a mother tends to change all sorts of things.
Despite the years in which I wasnít allowed to touch them, I know her feet pretty well.
I remember how they looked the day she was born. Most mothers probably think their babies are exceptional, but let me assure you, she was.
I wish you couldíve seen her.
Weighing almost 10 pounds, she had thick black curls, dark red skin and wide cheekbones.
The doctor said she looked like a red ripe apple.
Her dad said she looked like my mother.
I said she looked like my girl. That is what she was, my girl, a referee for her brothers.
Her feet seemed too small for her body. I could fit all 10 of her toes in my mouth at once.
Her first shoes were tiny pink satin slippers that ended up disappearing in the wash.
Then she graduated to thick-soled leather ěwalkers.î She was wearing them when she was 2, the day I found her on top of the kitchen stove playing with the knobs. I have no idea how she got up there. I just recall that the burners were red-hot and the soles of her shoes were smoking. I snatched her to safety and took 10 years off my life.
In no time, it seemed, she was playing ědress-up,î clomping about the house in my heels.
Her kindergarten shoes were pink tennies. For Sunday school or birthday parties, she wore black patent-leather Mary Janes.
I still recall her first baseball cleats, and all the countless other shoes she laced up over the years for roller-skating and basketball and field hockey and cheerleading.
I remember trying my best not to laugh or cry, watching the transformation as she pulled on her first pair of high heels (to match her first prom dress) and tottered across the floor like a newborn colt, then turned to walk back with the poise of a thoroughbred.
By the time she graduated from college, she could squeeze her toes into 9-inch stilettos and run circles around me.
When she started teaching, I tried with limited success to get her to wear ěsensibleî shoes to stand on her feet all day riding herd on a bunch of 8-year-olds.
And for her wedding (on a hill by the ocean) I convinced her to wear white satin sandals with wide heels that wouldnít mire up in the mud. Afterward, she even thanked me.
Lately, Iíve been wishing I could tell her what kind of shoes she will need for being a mom. But raising a child is not a one-shoe-fits-all kind of calling. It takes a whole village of shoes.
Running shoes for speed, cleats for traction, hip-waders for navigating muddy waters.
Fuzzy slippers for walking the floor with a newborn or waiting up for a teenager to get home.
Sandals for the park, flip-flops for the beach, boots to referee snowball fights and a sturdy, comfortable pair of flats for carpooling or parent-teacher conferencing or climbing the bleachers to get a better seat.
Heels are nice for baptisms, graduations, weddings and such, but flats work fine for those occasions, too.
Shoes donít matter, really. Itís feet that count. My daughterís feet are strong and true. They know when to lead and when to follow, when to tread softly and when to stand their ground.
Sheís going to be a great mom. And Lord willing, if she needs me, Iíll be there to rub her feet.

Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394 Henderson NV 89077 or at www.sharonrandall.com.
SHNS
The Associated Press
08/09/11 11:07