Yeah, I know all about the backlash focused on the goofy-looking-boating-clogs-turned-mainstream-footwear. I’ve been to ihatecrocs.com, read the criticisms, heard the escalator horror stories (and hey, escalators are not for kids, by the way).
But I love Crocs.
There, I said it.
Mostly, I love them on my children. It’s not just the cheerful, loud colors–like so many gumballs in a candystore. Or the fact that they’re ventilated, but offer more protection and support than sandals. It’s mainly that Crocs, here in my house anyway, prevent one of many battles that is our getting-out-of-the-house routine.
My kids can slip into Crocs by themselves. Let me say that again, because it bears repeating. My kids can slip into Crocs by themselves. This is huge. One less thing on a list 230 items long for me to do in the morning.
And you know what? I have enough to worry about. I fret over everything. What foods my kids eat. Are they stranger-danger savvy? Have I instilled in them an appropriate amount of fear regarding moving vehicles? Then there’s illness and disease and how much plastic, exactly, has my child ingested? And what if my three-year-old isn’t potty trained by the time she hits seventeen?
I’m not going to spend precious time stressing over a possible freak accident caused by their shoes. It’s not, after all, like Crocs come equipped with wheels or wings or jet engines.
And I might just treat myself to a second pair. It is spring in Seattle, is it not?
