The Littlest Cowboy

What is up with the significant portion of young mothers who seem to be playing dress up with their children?

The other day, Adrienne and I were at Primo's having a nice dinner. There is family all close to us, and we are having to withstand overhearing their stupid conversation. Nothing beats a trophy wife elementary school teacher with diarrhea of the mouth bitching about how hard it is to be a teacher.

A young boy about 3 years old was in a high chair near our table. I look down and notice a small set of cowboy boots sitting on floor next to the high chair. I am appalled for two reasons:

1. Why can't this little bastard eat with his shoes on? Maybe he could if he were wearing more traditional footwear.
   
2. Why the hell is this little bastard wearing cowboy boots?

Seriously, why does this kid need to wear cowboy boots? Does he need protection from rattlesnakes when he is out bailing hay amongst the goldenrods? Surely, this kid had no practical reason to be in cowboy boots. Why not just give him a monocle, a fedora , and a pocket watch? Wouldn't that just be precious? Or was the mom using her son as an accessory to proclaim, "We're Gawd feerin' simple folk that supports Dubya and our troops"? I leave that for you to decide.

Before leaving, Dad dutifully put the boots back on the Littlest Cowboy's feet and lifted him out of the high chair. As soon as his feet hit the floor, the Littlest Cowboy took off in a full sprint that lasted about a step and a half on the slick tile floor. Yeah, the Littlest Cowboy bit it pretty hard. And I am such a bastard, I smiled inwardly, not so much at the Little Cowboy's pain, but rather that his mother's insistence on playing real life dolly with him caused that pain.