My sixteen-year-old daughter is saving her toes for marriage. She announced this to me the day before she was to leave for Greece to attend a youth group camp at the Ionian Village. She had begged me for years to let her go on this priceless adventure to explore her heritage and discover herself. She insisted she was independent, mature, and responsible enough to leave the country without me.

This did not mean, however, that she was ready to pack for herself. She sat on her bed wearing mismatched socks and a scowl while I barked out the list of required items, checked her suitcase, and frantically scavenged through her drawers and the bottom of her closet.

“Long skirts for visits to the monastery. Check.” I began. “Modest one piece swimsuit for free time at the pool. Check,” I continued as she rolled her eyes. “Sandals for the beach and shower…” I paused, rummaging through ballet flats, pumps and a pair of combat boots, and looked at her expectantly.

“No way,” she announced, her eyes daring me to challenge her.

“It’s required.” I pointed to the list. “You’ll be in Greece. It’s summer.”

It was bad enough I was sending my youngest daughter across the world for three weeks to a camp where cell phones were not allowed. I was sure her ADD would flare up and she would forget her Euros, her passport and how much she loved me. I had seen Taken too many times and my greatest fear was that she would be kidnapped, sold into the white slave trade, and never seen again.

My daughter’s greatest fear, on the other hand, was wearing sandals.

When she was in first grade, I bought her a pair of pretty pink sandals with posies on the top. She put them on immediately, pirouetted through the house, and refused to take them off, even at bedtime. The next morning she skipped onto the school bus proud to show off her new sandals to her classmates. That afternoon, she slumped off the bus, wearing socks she’d borrowed from the nurse. It seems a fourth grader with a future foot fetish pointed out her fatal flaw. He noticed that instead of toes that descended from tallest to shortest like the Von Trapp family, my daughter’s second toe stood out defiantly like an exclamation point.

“I’m a freak of nature!” she cried. She flung the offensive sandals high into the air before storming into the house. I watched them plop into a puddle, float for a second, then slowly sink into the mud.

She researched reconstructive toe surgery that would beautify the line of her toes, giving her perfect little piggies. She considered binding her second toe to stunt its growth until the others could catch up. She threatened to chop off a half inch from each offending digit with a pair of yard clippers. Finally, she vowed to never again show her toes in public to spare herself future humiliation. Only her husband, if any man would even want to marry her with that deformity, would ever lay eyes on her naked toes.

But she was older now.  “You’re being ridiculous!” I argued with my teen, stomping my own familial foot for emphasis. “Be thankful you have ten toes, at all! Stand up for yourself and be proud of who you are.”

“You don’t understand! You never understand.” She sobbed and I hung my head, defeated, agonizing how my smart, beautiful daughter could be so shallow.

I looked down at my own feet, freshly pedicured in Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot polish wearing bejeweled sandals that shouted for attention. But it had not always been this way. I flashed back to my own youth and long forgotten feelings of inadequacy crept back. I remembered a young, insecure version of myself, standing barefoot by the pool, curling my toes under my feet so no one would see them. When I was her age, my mother’s well-meaning words did little to comfort me either.

“We’re going shopping,” I announced, determined we would make a quick purchase and finish packing.  My mother taught me long ago that shopping cured everything. I was confident the perfect pair of sandals would save my daughter’s sole.

I cajoled and pleaded with her in the car on the way to the mall. She finally agreed to look at the sandals, possibly purchase a pair, but she would not try them on in the store, and would not guarantee she would even wear them on her trip. When we walked into Sun and Ski, she pretended an interest in Yeti containers while I browsed the sandal selection.

A young man approached and asked if I needed any help. I looked up at him, catching my breath. He had curly brown hair, a twinkle in his eye, and the intoxicating smell of new shoes. He was built like a Greek god in a pair of Nikes.

“My daughter needs some thongs,” I stammered. “For Greece.” I saw her dive under a rack of hoodies from the corner of my eye. “For her…feet.”

He smiled and I melted. “Where is your daughter?” I pointed to her sneakered feet peeping out from beneath the rack. I watched incredulously as he parted the clothes, reached for her hand and led her to a chair. He removed my daughter’s shoes and measured her feet. “Wait here while I find you some sandals,” he said and disappeared before she could protest. She gave me a murderous look and flipped me off with one of her middle toes.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” she hissed. “I don’t even want to go to Greece, anymore!”

“I can’t believe how ungrateful you are!” I hissed back. “Anyone would jump at the chance to go on a trip like this!”

She could deal with prince charming all by herself. Already he had returned, balancing a mountain of shoe boxes in his muscular arms. He kneeled at her feet and gingerly reached for her ankle. I cringed. She glanced at me, mortified, her eyes begging me to come to her aid as he slowly rolled down the cuff of her sock, but I stepped away, lost in my own thoughts.

How I would appreciate another opportunity to go to Greece. I had not been since I was her age, when my father was finally able to take off work so we could go on a family trip to the village where he had been born.

I remember my parents making us visit one boring museum after another when all my sister and I wanted to do was to lie out on a beach, flirt with Greek boys and swim in the cobalt sea. We must have looked at a thousand Greek statues when I made a life-altering discovery. Each statue, every statue, had second toes that stood out defiantly from the rest. A placard on the wall informed us that this anomaly was a sign of aristocracy and beauty to the ancient Greeks. Elated, we took photos of the statues and compared their strong, grounded feet with mine. We snapped shots of me barefoot behind the statues, and laughed that I was following in the footsteps of our great ancestors.

We finally had the chance to lay out by the pool at the hotel our last day in Athens. For once in my life, I stretched out unselfconsciously on the chaise lounge. For the first time, I did not try to hide my toes under the rubber slat of the chair or cover my feet with a beach towel. I was a cosmopolitan woman of the world, feeling the pleasant sensation of the Mediterranean sun on my bikini-clad body. I closed my eyes, finally at peace with myself and the toes God had given me. My sister with her normal toes was almost jealous of my authentic Greek ones.

I was drifting off to sleep when suddenly I felt a pinch on my right second toe, like a bird had swooped down to bite it, mistaking it for a worm. Startled, I opened my eyes to find a man at my feet sporting a hairy chest, a Speedo and a leer.

“I love your toes!” he exclaimed in perfect English. “Beautiful girl, beautiful toes!” I blushed from head to toe under my Grecian tan as he walked away.

I sat up and looked at my sister in the next chair. My greatest nightmare had come true. A strange man had not only spotted my Achilles toe, but had the audacity to violate it with his hand. Had he grabbed a huge hunk of my bikini bottom I would not have been more mortified. My sister and I stared at each other in horror, mouths gaping open, sharing a silent scream like only teenage girls can do. Then we howled with laughter.

I should have kicked him in the face. I should have lectured him on boundaries and proper pool etiquette and reported him to the authorities. Instead, I fantasized marrying this man who had worshipped my toes, bringing him back to America where I would live happily ever after enjoying foot massages and open-toed shoes.

My daughter interrupted my thoughts. “Mom, which ones do you like?” She smiled broadly as she examined her feet. Wearing a Teva on her right foot and a Sanuk on her left, she paraded up and down the aisle for me as the salesman looked on, nodding his head in approval. He stopped her and got down on one knee to adjust a strap, his fingers lightly grazing her toe, a look of appreciation on his chiseled face. She gazed down at him, clearly head over heels.

I pulled out my credit card and handed it to the boy. “We’ll take them both,” I said, winking at my daughter.

She wore the Tevas out of the store, no longer afraid to put her best foot forward, and we hurried home to finish packing. Today she bought new sandals. Tomorrow she would travel to Greece and explore a new world. Soon she would be off to college, and like me would tiptoe down the road to self-discovery. Perhaps she would find something more valuable to save for her husband.

But for now I was happy to foot the bill.











First Dance




“His name is Kole.  His name is Kole,”  I repeated to myself silently, as the two got into the car and settled themselves comfortably, too comfortably, I feared, into the back seat.

Kole, Kole, Kole,”  I insisted under my breath.

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He looked nice enough with his shock of black hair and freckle splattered cheeks. I caught a whiff of cologne, certainly not after- shave, his face more boy than man, and smiled smugly. I could take him down. If necessary, one well-aimed bump of my hip could bring him to his knees.   I examined his slight build and corrected myself. Physical violence would not be necessary. My purse could flatten him, both straps tied behind its back.

I knew him. As soon as my daughter uttered his name months ago with her petal pink lips, the research began. All it took really was a few phone calls to a couple of well- connected mothers, and I was armed with his life history. I knew him, but he did not know me.

“I am Greek!” I wanted to scream and shock that confident smirk off his face. “We make soup out of genitals and serve it to our families at Easter!” I shuddered, recalling how my own father would make an elaborate show of pulling his guns out of a gleaming glass case he kept in the living room when a boy would have the audacity to come to the house to pick me up for a date. One by one he would lovingly polish each gun with a rag, his white undershirt stained with sweat. As a result, I had many first dates in high school, but never a second.

Where was my dad when I needed him? As a single mom, I appeared docile. I baked cookies. I served brownies and joked. But inside, I seethed and plotted. If only the poor boy could read the thoughts behind my carefully made up face, he would flee from the car, race back to the safety of the school and not look back.

It started off innocently enough, as things always do.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” my precious 15 year-old daughter announced one day. She inhaled deeply and breathed, “Kole.”

“Coal?” I pronounced, the name bitter on my tongue. Like the piece of carbon Santa brings a bad boy for Christmas.

“Cole with a K,” she answered sweetly, dreamily.                   “K-O-L-E.”

“Kole.  Oh…” I corrected myself.  Like the Greek word kolo, the body part you sit on.

And so, it started. She thought he was perfect, Kole with a K, an aspiring musician, and I just thought he was one letter away from being an ass.

“I really like him, Mom,” she continued. “We’re going out.”

“Where are you going?” I demanded, knowing full well my daughter’s whereabouts at all times. I knew where she was 24 hours a day: school, church, basketball practice, in her room doing her homework, never remotely near anyone named Kole or his kolo.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “We talk. We text. We sit together at lunch. Everyone knows we like each other,” she explained, as if to a two-year-old.

I breathed a sigh of relief. A crush, I thought. Puppy love. Nothing would ever come of this…

“He wants to take me to…”


“You didn’t let me finish…”

I pulled out my trump card. “Not until you’re 16.”

We ended up compromising. They were going out without going anywhere, and I pretended that was acceptable to me.

I made a few attempts at being a modern mom. I picked him up occasionally so they could study at Starbucks, two huge backpacks resting between them in the backseat, an impervious fortress.

Months passed and the inevitable happened.

She turned 16.

Outwardly, I celebrated. I threw a huge party for her and 30 of her closest friends and showered her with gifts.

Inwardly, I wailed. I tore at my hair and cursed my predicament.

She cornered me the day after her party.

“There’s a dance,” she began. “I want to go with Kole.”

“No,” I answered without thinking.

“But you promised! I’m 16. I’ll be getting my driver’s license soon.”

“No,” I stammered, but her excitement was contagious. After all, I had been young once, in love, bursting with anticipation, glowing with the warmth of a new romance.   I scrutinized the mature, responsible young woman before me and fought the urge to be like my father.

And that was how I found myself in this predicament, driving this car, one eye on the road and one focused in the rear view mirror, spying on the young couple huddled together in the backseat, sitting shamelessly close, thighs touching, when there was clearly enough room for three full-sized strangers to spread out.

“How was the dance?” I asked.

“Oh, it was so much fun!” she gushed. “We danced all night. The band was great. Everyone liked my dress.”

I watched her in the rear-view mirror tug self-consciously at the bodice of her first strapless gown.  Kole loosened his bowtie.

The hairs on the back of my neck sprang to attention. Something was not right. I changed lanes unnecessarily so I would have an excuse to look over my shoulder into the dark back seat.

It was then I saw it. His hand rested ever so lightly on my daughter’s pearly white, perfectly shaped knee.

“That’s my knee!” I wanted to shriek. “I gave birth to that knee! Get your grubby little hand off my perfect little knee or I’ll show you what a knee’s good for, you little…”

I calculated in my mind, 15 minutes, 12 minutes if I sped home. Twelve minutes of his feeling up my daughter’s knee. Rage blinded me as I fought the urge to pull over, drag him from the car by the neck of his shirt and kick him in the kolo.

I talked to distract them: death, war, the famine in Haiti, the earthquake in Chile. If only I could keep his dirty little mind, if not his hand, off my daughter’s knee. I glanced at the clock glowing on the dashboard. We had more than a ten minute drive to Kole’s house when the crisis hit; my daughter rested her beautiful head of curls on Kole’s shoulder, and closed her eyes.

“Look out!” I screamed, swerving the car violently. Her head flew left, then right from the sudden motion.

“Mom! What the…?”

“A dog!” I lied. “I almost hit that dog! Whew, what a close call. Could you imagine Kole scooping up that poor little poodle? He’d be ringing doorbells all night in his tuxedo, trying to find its owners.”

I turned on the radio to a Christian station and raised the volume to gospel proportions. I peeked at them in the rear view mirror as a chorus of nuns sang the Lord’s Prayer in soprano. Minutes went by. I had just turned onto Kole’s street when I saw him turn towards her, leaning closer, his pursed lips dangerously close to their mark.

Without thinking, I jammed on the brakes in the middle of the dark road. “This one’s for you, Dad,” I cackled to myself as the car screeched to a stop.

“Ow!” Kole cried, as his neck snapped forward, then back from the sudden halt. He clutched the back of his head as the pungent aroma of burned rubber filled the car.

“Mom, what’s wrong with you?” my daughter cried. “Kole, are you ok?”

“Cat! Didn’t you see that black cat in the middle of the road?” I fibbed with conviction. “The only thing worse than having a black cat cross in front of you is hitting one. We all would have had bad luck!” I quickly pulled up in front of Kole’s house, parked the car and immediately turned on the interior lights.

“Thank you for the ride,” he said in his best Eddie Haskell voice, rubbing the back of his neck where the whiplash had grabbed him.

“Anytime Kolo,” I cooed.

“It’s Kole,” he said resignedly.

“Of course, Kole,” I over pronounced. “And I do hope your neck feels better soon.”

I suppressed a smile as I watched him limp unsteadily up the front walk and enter his house. I turned to my daughter and patted her gently on the knee. “You never forget your first dance,” I whispered to the breathtaking princess in the back seat.

I pulled out carefully into the street. We took the long way home; there was no rush, and we did not hit a single animal along the way.