The AirTag Is Dying, but the Shoes Are Still Traveling

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the unexpected travels of Joy’s pink, glittery high-tops. For anyone who missed the first installment: I returned the shoes to Amazon at Kohl’s because Joy had tripped in them while running for the bus and done a spectacular face-plant. Unfortunately, I forgot one small detail. I had left an AirTag inside one of the shoes.

So instead of disappearing into the mysterious universe of Amazon returns, Joy’s shoes became trackable. And apparently they have places to be.

When I last wrote, the shoes had traveled from St. Louis to a warehouse near Kansas City, then to Louisville, Kentucky, then south through Georgia and Florida, eventually landing in Miami. I assumed Miami might be the end of the line. It was not.

For about a week, the shoes stayed in a building on NW 70th Street in Miami. Most of the time, Find My showed them sitting on or near a loading dock. I began imagining an enormous pallet of Amazon returns sitting there: somebody’s broken coffeemaker, three pairs of leggings that didn’t fit, a shower curtain in the wrong shade of blue, an inflatable dinosaur costume, and Joy’s sparkly pink size 13 Little Kid high-tops.

Every once in a while, the dot moved. For a while, the shoes appeared to be in a narrow walkway between two buildings. Then they were next door. Then back on the loading dock. Then they sat on that loading dock for several more days.

And then I checked one day and suddenly they were moving. Not just moving around the warehouse. Moving. The shoes were apparently inside a semitruck heading north through Florida. A pair of $14 children’s tennis shoes that had already traveled more than a thousand miles were now taking a road trip.

Near Boca Raton. Then farther north. Eventually, the dot stopped at a Flying J near Cocoa Beach. At this point I was beginning to feel less like someone tracking a forgotten AirTag and more like the parent of a college kid checking Life360.

Okay. They stopped for the night. Good.

Two days later, I checked again.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Another truck stop. Next door was the Country Pride Restaurant. I like to imagine Joy’s shoes sitting quietly in the truck while their driver went inside for chicken-fried steak.

And today? They are in Oceanside, New York, inside a building on New Street. Naturally, I looked up the businesses in the building. There appear to be several: PHSE USA, Compassionate Care Pet Aquamation, and J & M Stucco.

So now I have even more questions.

What exactly are Joy’s shoes doing in a building occupied by a biotech company, a pet aquamation business, and a stucco contractor? I have no idea. Honestly, I have understood less about this journey with every passing mile.

These are not expensive shoes. They cost $14. They are used, pink, glittery, and size 13 Little Kid. And somehow they have now traveled roughly 3,000 miles: O’Fallon, Missouri, near Kansas City, Louisville, Georgia, Miami, up the Florida coast, Pennsylvania, and now Long Island, New York.

For fourteen-dollar shoes.

This raises a question I had never given much thought to before: What exactly happens to all the stuff we return to Amazon?

I suppose I imagined that somebody looked at the shoes, decided whether they could be resold, and put them in a box somewhere. I did not imagine them touring the eastern United States.

At this point, I desperately want to know the economics of this. Surely the gasoline used to move these shoes around the country is worth more than the shoes. The loading docks are worth more than the shoes. The warehouse space is worth more than the shoes. The portion of the truck they occupy may be worth more than the shoes.

And yet they keep moving.

I’m also becoming increasingly curious about their ultimate destination. Are they being sent to a liquidation warehouse? A reseller? A donation center? Another Amazon facility? Are they about to cross the Atlantic? At this point, nothing would surprise me. I could open Find My next Tuesday and discover that Joy’s shoes are in Belgium.

There is, however, now a deadline to this little adventure. My AirTag is giving me a low-battery warning. Google tells me I have about another week before that little dot disappears for good.

So, shoes, you have seven days.

I’m still hoping for the ending I wanted two weeks ago. I want that dot eventually to stop moving and turn up somewhere that makes sense—a house, a school, a playground. Maybe I’ll see them sitting in the same place for several days and imagine another little girl putting on Joy’s old glittery high-tops and heading off to kindergarten.

That would make this ridiculous 3,000-mile journey feel worthwhile.

Of course, it is also entirely possible that I am no longer tracking the shoes at all. Maybe someone found the AirTag. Maybe the shoes are already gone. Maybe I’m following an AirTag that has been tossed into a pallet of miscellaneous merchandise and is now enjoying the greatest adventure of its electronic life.

I have no way of knowing. But I do know this: I paid $14 for a pair of tennis shoes, Joy wore them for a while, she face-planted while running for the bus, I returned them—and those shoes have now seen considerably more of America than most shoes ever will.

Come on, shoes. You’ve got seven days. Find a kid.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Shoes

Just to remind everyone: a few weeks ago, I took Joy’s pink, glittery high-tops to the Amazon returns counter at Kohl’s. They were cute shoes, but after Joy tripped in them while running for the bus and did a pretty impressive face-plant, I decided they needed to go back.

There was just one problem. I forgot to remove the AirTag.

According to the Find My app, the shoes stayed in the back room at Kohl’s for several days. Then they started traveling.

First stop: a warehouse in Grove Valley, Missouri. Then a much larger warehouse in Kentucky.

A few days ago, they were on the move again, this time in Georgia. Yesterday, Find My showed them at a truck stop in northern Florida.

Today? Miami.

They are currently sitting in a nondescript shipping and distribution building on NW 70th Street, not far from Miami International Airport.

And I am now completely invested in the journey of a $14 pair of used girls’ high-tops.

I check Find My a few times a day. Where are they going next?

Because these are pink-and-glittery size 13 Little Kid high-tops that have already been worn, I am not confident that they are destined for some glamorous second life. There is a very real possibility that their final destination will be a landfill.

And that makes me a little sad.

I’m hoping somebody eventually decides they are worth a dollar. So maybe they get sold. Maybe donated. Maybe some little girl ends up wearing them to school.

I would love to open Find My one afternoon and discover that Joy’s old shoes are sitting at a park. Or Chuck E. Cheese. Or an elementary school.

That would be a satisfying ending.

Of course, another possibility is that somebody finds the AirTag, removes it from the shoe, and tosses it into the trash. In that case, I may end up tracking the AirTag instead of the shoes until it is crushed, buried, or simply goes silent when the battery dies.

Still, I’m hooked.

In fact, this whole experience has made me want to start putting AirTags in more of my Amazon returns just to see where everything goes. Although there are some obvious logistical problems.

Where exactly do you hide an AirTag in a throw rug? Or a sweater that was too small?

I’m beginning to think tracking Amazon returns could become an entirely new hobby.

For now, though, I’ll keep watching that little dot in Miami and rooting for a pair of pink glittery shoes to get one more chance.

Come on, shoes. Find a kid.

Things That Go Bye-Bye

Our toilet had been acting strangely for a while. It would flush, but painfully slowly. Even with absolutely nothing in the bowl, the water would rise nearly to the rim, linger there, and then very slowly recede.

So today I finally had a plumber come over. He plunged. He snaked. He did whatever mysterious things plumbers do while the homeowner stands nearby trying to learn their secrets. Eventually, he had to remove the entire toilet from the floor. And there it was: a nearly full, large tube of Colgate toothpaste lodged just above the pipe.

Colgate.

Now, I don’t particularly like Colgate toothpaste either. But I deal with that by buying a different brand. I do not flush it down the toilet. Joy, apparently, has developed a different philosophy of waste management: If it fits in the bowl, it can go bye-bye.

Toothpaste? Bye-bye. Toothbrush? Potentially bye-bye. Dad’s car keys? Let’s not even think about it.

Unfortunately, a fairly large amount of money also went bye-bye today when I paid the plumber. Still, I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn’t my iPhone.

We’ve had another unusual Joy-related journey going on lately—although this one does not involve plumbing. A few weeks ago, I bought Joy a pair of high-top tennis shoes. They looked great on her, and she wore them to summer school. Then one morning she was running for the bus, tripped over the shoes, and face-planted. And when I say face-planted, I mean she did it thoroughly.

She had cuts and scrapes on her eyebrow, eyelid, forehead, lip, and cheek, plus a scraped knee and elbow. That was enough for me. The high-tops were going back. So I took them to the Amazon return counter at Kohl’s, handed over the shoes, got my receipt, and went home.

There was just one problem: I had forgotten to remove the AirTag from Joy’s right shoe. (Yes, I modify Joy’s shoes so that they can accommodate an AirTag.)

Which means I have now become far more emotionally invested in the Amazon returns process than any human being should be. Every so often I open Find My and check on Joy’s traveling tennis shoe. For several days, it was hanging out in Grove Valley, Missouri. Then it moved to an Amazon warehouse in Shepherdsville, Kentucky, where it apparently enjoyed another little vacation.

Today, Joy’s shoe is on the move again. According to the AirTag, 7 minutes ago it was traveling south on Highway 75 in Georgia, just north of Ashburn. I don’t know where it’s going. I don’t know whether Amazon knows where it’s going. But I know exactly where it is.

Somewhere in Georgia, a returned high-top tennis shoe containing my AirTag is having a considerably more adventurous summer than I am. I’ve decided not to interfere. I want to see how far it gets. Maybe eventually it will end up in an Amazon liquidation center. Maybe somebody will buy it. Maybe six months from now I’ll look at my phone and discover that Joy’s right shoe has moved to Idaho. At this point, I’m along for the ride.

So today’s Joy report involves two objects making unexpected journeys: one tube of Colgate attempted to travel through the sewer system, and one high-top tennis shoe is currently touring the southeastern United States. The toothpaste didn’t get very far. The shoe seems considerably more determined.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this is Joy, who remains blissfully unconcerned about either one. As far as she’s concerned, things disappear. You put toothpaste in the toilet: bye-bye. Dad takes your shoes to Kohl’s: bye-bye. The only person foolish enough to keep tracking where everything goes is Dad. And after today’s plumbing bill, Dad is keeping a much closer eye on his iPhone.

“DAAAD! Chips!”

I work in the quiet room at the library most days. Some days I’m away from home for ten hours, and by the end of the day, I miss Joy and everyone else at home.

When I finally walk through the door, dinner is usually either still on the stove or already on the table. We eat, talk about the day, and then—often before I’ve had much time to settle in—I hear it.

“DAAAD! Chips!”

“Chips” does not simply mean chips. “Chips” means: Dad, get your shoes on. We are going to Dollar Tree.

This has become one of our evening routines. We go often enough that I suspect the Dollar Tree staff may call the police if we fail to show up by 9 p.m.

We hop on my three-wheel passenger trike. Joy puts on her pink helmet and buckles herself into the bench seat behind me. I flip on the headlight and tail lights. Dollar Tree is about a half mile away. We get there in about 5 minutes.

When we walk in, Joy gets the cart. I follow.

First stop: the chip aisle, naturally. Usually Pringles, despite the fact that we currently have at least six cans of Pringles in the pantry. Then health and beauty, where we may need Band-Aids whether anyone is injured or not. Then toys: Play-Doh, cheap dolls, assorted plastic objects that will be underfoot by tomorrow morning.

Then food: tuna packets, Red Vines, ketchup, off-brand drinks, and whatever else catches Joy’s eye.

Finally, we make our way through the household section for facial tissues, paper towels, disinfectant wipes, and other things that allow me to pretend this is actually a practical shopping trip.

One of my favorite things is simply watching Joy shop. She pushes the cart with purpose, perhaps a bit too fast for safety, examines the merchandise, makes decisions, and occasionally stops at one of those little price scanners to check what something costs.

The answer is usually $1.25. But Pringles are $2.50. She takes the whole process very seriously.

Which brings us to money.

I use a credit card for almost everything. I rarely carry cash, and Joy almost never sees me paying with actual bills.

But today Deb sold a few things on Facebook Marketplace, so for once we had a little stack of cash sitting on a side table in the living room.

Until Joy found it. She seemed to know instinctively that she had discovered something important.

Within moments, she was making it rain like she’d wandered into a strip club. Mom got some. Aunt Ashley got some. Fives and twenties were being handed out with remarkable generosity.

But of course Joy kept most of it. She stood there clutching a fistful of bills and waving them around like she had just won the lottery.

And I kept thinking: How does she even know what this is?

I’ve never really shown her money. She has play money for her ice cream stand, but it’s smaller, different colors, and looks nothing like actual U.S. currency.

Yet there she was, a seven-year-old, holding a wad of cash and looking exactly like someone who understood that life had suddenly taken a very favorable turn.

People sometimes joke that kids think money grows on trees.

Joy apparently has an even better system: Money simply appears on the living room table.

And when it does, you grab as much as you can, give a little to the people you love, and start planning your next trip to Dollar Tree.

Which, I assume, will be tomorrow.

“DAAAD! Chips!”

TikTok Star

Joy has had a pretty great summer.

For the past few weeks, her aunt Ashley has been in town and spending a lot of time at our house. And when your aunt happens to be a TikTok star with about 40,000 followers, there is a fairly good chance you are eventually going to find yourself appearing in a few videos.

Joy has now entered the TikTok universe.

And apparently, people like her.

Her appearances in Ashley’s videos have been getting plenty of likes and comments, so perhaps we have a future TikTok star on our hands. Joy certainly seems comfortable with the medium. Give her some music, a snack, and an audience, and she is ready for production.

Her specialties so far include dancing to Billy Idol and eating snacks with her aunt while the camera rolls.

The results are hilarious.

There is something especially funny about watching Joy realize that a camera is pointed at her. She doesn’t suddenly become shy or self-conscious. If anything, she becomes more Joy. There is dancing. There are expressions. There is serious attention paid to whatever snack happens to be involved. And Ashley, who knows exactly how to capture the moment, keeps the whole thing rolling.

I’m including a couple of screenshots from their recent collaborations as well as the movie poster for Joy’s new movie.

I have no idea whether Joy understands that thousands of people may be watching these little moments. I suspect she mostly understands that Aunt Ashley is here, the music is playing, snacks are available, and everyone seems to be having a good time.

Which, come to think of it, may be the healthiest possible approach to social media.

So stay tuned.

Billy Idol. Snacks. Joy. Aunt Ashley (@ashleypayton9 on TikTok).

The ingredients for TikTok fame are apparently all in place.

Keeping Up with Joy

Joy is hula-hooping now, and she is very good at it.

At first, she didn’t quite get the hang of it. The hoop would go around her waist maybe one or two times, then drop to the ground. But she simply would not give up. She watched her sister doing it and decided, in the determined way Joy does, I want to do what Sister can do. And so she kept trying.

Now she’s got it. Those little hips really go.

Watching her learn has been a reminder of how much can be accomplished when someone refuses to be discouraged. Joy did not stop to wonder whether she had natural talent. She did not whine about how hard it was. She just kept at it until the thing that looked impossible (to me) started to look easy.

So I’m inspired. I may have to get an adult-size hoop and see whether I can keep up.

In the meantime, I’ve taken up running. I started in October, and my times are getting better. I recently ran a 5K in 34.5 minutes, which felt like a real achievement for me. Part of the reason I’ve stuck with running is that it’s fun. Part of it is that it’s great exercise. And part of it is pure necessity.

Joy likes to take off from the front yard and sprint down the street with no concern whatsoever for cars, dogs, or my increasingly urgent insistence that she stop. She just laughs and keeps running. So someone in this family needs to be able to run an eleven-minute mile.

At the moment, that someone is me. And more than once I have had to catch her and carry her home.

Between Joy hula-hooping and Joy bolting down the street, she has become both my inspiration and my conditioning program. She is a reminder that hard work and determination can pay off.

A seven-year-old can become an expert hula-hooper. And a sixty-four-year-old can train to run faster than a seven-year-old.

Joy sees something she wants to do, and she does it.

I see Joy in the distance, and I run to catch her.

It’s beautiful, really. One of us is running straight toward joy. The other is running straight toward Joy before she reaches the corner. For now, that seems to amount to the same thing.

Home. Sick.

Joy has been sick for over a week—home from school, bundled in blankets, moving slowly through her days. I thought I was immune. I had the flu shot. The COVID shot. Daily vitamin C. I figured I was covered.

For eight days, I’ve wiped her nose, cleaned up her vomit, spiked her orange juice with liquid acetaminophen, and let her kiss me anyway. And I felt fine.

Today, I’m not so fine.

But that’s life with a first-grader.

Even when she was clearly feeling awful, she still wanted to do alphabet puzzles the moment she woke up. We do them every morning. It’s our routine. If I make a mistake—like putting the letter V in the A slot—Joy simply picks it up, places it where it belongs, and moves on. She never scolds me. She never comments. She understands that mistakes happen.

I love that about her.

After puzzles, we play with the volleyball. Then it’s Cheerios and orange juice, though her appetite hasn’t been quite the same.

When we lie down for nap, she tickles my toes for five whole minutes. She does most of the giggling.

Tomorrow, she’ll likely go back to school. I’ll probably crawl back into bed at 8:22, right after she gets on the bus, grateful for the extra sleep.

But I’ll carry the week with me.

The puzzles and the volleyball. The Cheerios and orange juice. The way she fixes my mistakes without a word, as if kindness is the most natural thing in the world. The sound of her laughter when she tickles my toes, joyful and unrestrained.

These days don’t last forever. Neither does the sickness.

What remains is the knowing—that even in the small, uncomfortable stretches of life, there is so much love. Enough to fill a week at home. Enough to carry us both forward.

Joy’s ABC Song

Joy loves the ABC song. She sings it every morning.

Ay bee sea dee eee eff gee

aitsh eye jay kay

ella minnow pee

cue are ess

tee you vee

dubya eks why and zeeee…

Now I know my ABCs…

This morning I started thinking about what Joy would include in a children’s book about the ABCs. I thought Joy might say: A is for ABBA / The rock and roll band / A is for Apple / A fruit I can’t stand.

But “ABBA good, Apple bad” is not the right message. So I have taken a different approach. Let me know what you think. What are some other words that are important to Joy and others like her?

Joy’s Book of ABCs

A is for Able,

I can do that.

I can spell words

Like ME and CAT.

B is for Birthday

A day of cake and ice cream

A day of fun and family

And hugs and nice dreams.

C is for Chromosome

I have an extra one of those.

But I still have ten fingers

And ten beautiful toes.

D is for Down.

Which is often a negative word.

But when you add Syndrome,

It means Best in the World.

D is for Different

I’m just different from you

Because I’m unique

And you’re unique too.

E is for Equal and Everyone,

Which means for everybody

Like having a home and a school

And a place to go potty.

Tune in tomorrow for F, G, and H.

A Letter from a Mom

A while back I received a letter from a reader.

Hello,

This is a strange thing to write in this comment box, but I have a daughter with Down syndrome, and she’s named after your daughter Joy, even though I’ve never met her or you. Let me explain.

My other daughter was in Joy’s class at Meadows when I was pregnant and we got the news that she would be born with Down syndrome.

It was an emotional time for me, and one day I noticed Joy (I didn’t know her name yet) in the pickup line and overheard the teacher say to your wife what a great day she’d had that day and has every day.

I was overcome with emotion hearing that; it was so overwhelming for me. And then later there was a picture of Joy and my daughter on the class app. I asked my daughter about her, and she told me her name was Joy, and I immediately started crying. I was not yet at the point where I felt joy, and I found it incredible that you guys named her Joy.

I resolved at that moment that my daughter’s middle name would be Joy and that I would manifest a feeling of Joy in my heart for my soon-to-be baby even though that’s not what I was feeling at that moment. I was so scared of the unknown.

Fast-forward to today, and our little L___ Joy (now 20 months) is the joy of everyone she meets and the little joy of our family!! It’s hard to think back to those early days after the diagnosis. I think about my fear and sadness with shame. But seeing your daughter Joy, without even meeting her, brought Joy to my heart and helped me through that time.

I ran into my daughter’s preschool teacher recently and through our conversation I ended up telling her the story and she shared your blog. I just spent the last hour reading it. It’s so lovely. I’m so moved by what I read that I thought I’d take a leap and send you this note. I loved reading the stories of Joy and I can’t wait for my little L___ Joy to experience all of the things I’m reading about.

Joy’s “Good Side”

Joy loves kindergarten. In the morning, as we get ready for the bus, making lunch and packing her backpack, Joy gets visibly excited. And during the week, we get many pictures from her teachers at school. Joy is clearly having a blast at school and learning so much. But she is super tired when she gets off the bus at 4:40. She often wants an afterschool snack and play time or a bike ride. And we do dinner early because by 7 pm, she is ready to go to bed.

Joy will come into the kitchen, where I’m often reading or working, turn off the kitchen and dining room lights, and then gesture to me (or Mom) with her hand. We don’t need words to understand her. She is ready.

I put down my book or close the laptop, make a cup of ice water, and follow Joy down the hall. Joy brushes her teeth (with some assistance) and we change into pajamas. She hops into bed, and I give her the water. She takes two or three sips and lies down, pulling the covers up to her chin. I dim the lights.

I lie down on Joy’s left, letting Joy rest her head on my right arm. She puts her right hand in mine, and she rolls her head back and forth until she’s comfortable. She turns to me and gets as close as possible, snuggling and putting her leg on my leg. She believes that this snuggle hold is rock solid, that there is no way I can escape. And of course I don’t want to escape. I live for this.

When she is held, Joy often falls asleep within minutes. And the smell of her hair can make me sleepy as well. I might nap for thirty minutes or so like this. Then, if I’m careful and gentle, I can extract myself from her embrace. If she starts to wake up and I’m not in the snuggle position, she will whine for a few seconds until I resume the snuggle hold. Soon, though, she is back in deep sleep.

So Joy almost always places her head on my right arm. But yesterday, she lay down in my spot. So I climbed over her and placed her head on my left arm. And I looked at her as she snuggled into me. And I noticed how really beautiful her eyelashes are. And those cheeks. And so I wondered if this change in perspective had something to do with me rediscovering Joy’s beautiful features.

It was odd. I mean, Joy’s face is symmetrical. Her eyelashes are mostly identical on each side. Cheeks too. Her smile is joyous and wonderful from every angle. Her hair is soft and shiny. (However, there is some research that demonstrates that the left side of the face shows more emotional expression. The left side is often considered our “good side.”)

So I’ve decided to look at her from different angles. Every day. I want to commit to memory as much as I can about what Joy is like at age five. And six. And seven. And since my memory is getting slippery, I want to take more photos and videos.

And someone needs to take pictures of her mom and me. Because someday, she might ask, “Who loved me the most in the world?”