Wellington Boots

It rains a lot in Ireland. But the western part of the country is the wettest. So when we visit my mother-in-law in the west, we often wear Wellington boots. She maintains an admirable collection of man-sized Wellies for her two sons and their former schoolmates - who might visit to go fishing - because she believes sons are never too old to be dressed by thier mothers. She also has a growing collection of child-sized Wellies for her six grandchildren. Wellies are the perfect boot because they are entirely waterproof, slip-proof and immune to all trends in outerwear fashion. There are no coolmax liners to fuss with, no neoprene flaps, no gortex laces, no labels on the outside. Just 18 inches of thick rubber. Adult boots come in basically two colors, cowpat green and blackeye blue. I would wear them everyday in Ireland if my husband didn’t mock me for looking like a “culchie,” which I think is Irish for hillbilly. But my kids aren’t big fans. They are part of the Crocs generation. Shoes, to them, should ideally look like the paw of a cartoon animal, slip off easily and weigh just a few ounces. But, fundamentally, my kids don’t like Wellies because, like ducks and children worldwide, they don’t give a flying wallenda if their feet get muddy and wet. Wellie makers must have cottoned on to kids’ indifference to comfortably dry feet, so in order to appeal to this demographic that doesn’t need their product, they make kids’ boots in all sorts of colors and designs. Today I made the kids wear Wellies since it’s raining outside and I’m cold. Myles couldn’t find a masculine looking pair, so I dug out a girl’s pair, pointing out that they were blue. “But Mom, they’re also covered in pink and purple flowery umbrella thingies,” he objects. “Well, they’re mainly blue,” I say. “And umbrellas are for everyone.” He doesn’t buy the unisex argument anymore, ever since I made him wear a sailor suit that he later saw a photo of Fiona wearing years earlier. “I mean, Fiona and Isabelle wear these,” he protests, as if the boots hold some transferrable whiff of girliness. He finally relents when I mention that nobody will see them anyway since the nearest neighbor is a half mile away and, being a farmer, he'll be wearing Wellies today too. "Yeah, but his mom won't make him wear girl boots," Myles sighs. I mention his mother is probably dead, and Myles darts me a hard look and fleetingly wonders how hard it would be to just wipe me out and choose his own shoes. Luckily, he’s forgotten all about the boots when his grandmother later takes him into the village to buy milk. Any man in the village around mid-day here who is not drinking in a pub is probably a farmer or a lumberjack, provisioning some 8,000 calorie snack to keep himself going until tea time. After a couple of these brawny types ruffle his hair in the shop, he remembers the offending boots, pulls them off and spends the rest of the afternoon barefoot, re-contemplating the possibility of my demise.