Before you have babies you don't realize shoes are sneaky bastards and babies are earth mother hippies. How do you know this, oh wise Ish? Let me tell you, reader.
In reverse order, A) babies are earth mother hippies. They don't want to wear shoes. Or socks. Or diapers. Or pants. They don't care what the temperature is. They don't care that its cold/sleeting/rainy/stormaggedon. They want their toes in contact with Mother Earth and you are a fascist SOB to get in the way of their dream. Oddly enough they are wasteful (food? I don't want food, the floor wants food!) and not at all pacifist (you didn't need that eye did you? don't get in my way, fool). Basically, they are terrible faux hippies like those kids you went to school with who had trust funds.
B) Shoes are sneaky bastards. Say one day you (and by you I mean, me) go shopping for supplies. You are mighty tired of shopping. You might feel like you live at Target. You may never want to shop again, but you need damn teething biscuits and other crap. On your way to dreaded Target you stop by the black hole known as Babies-R-Us. You try on shoes until your eyes bleed. You leave a massive pile of shoes by the shoe section because you are exhausted and none of the fucking sizes are consistent. This size 3 is twice as big as Baby Flails-a-lot feet, this size 4 doesn't fit at all, etc. You know you shouldn't leave the pile but now you're tired and you hate everyone.
Finding shoes Baby Flails-a-lot can't work off with her little dexterous fat fingers or prehensile monkey toes (thanks for that, Husband-cat) is only marginally more difficult than building a low orbit rocket out of dirt. My two finalists are weird sandal-y things with a quarter inch sole that are apparently designed for jungle forays. The second are grotesquely cute white sandals with flowers on them that make your teeth ache with their sweetness.
You buy your finalists, place the white girly shoes on Baby Flails-a-lot and breathe a sigh of relief. Finally there will be a bulwark against the sock removal technique Baby Flails-a-lot is a master of (like every other baby on the planet). The socks will remain and her toes will be warm. Yay!
Then you descend into Target for a miasma of shopping and baby wrangling, because God forbid Baby Flails-a-lot doesn't stand up in cart. Actually, I forbid it. I forbid it a lot, but it takes work to keep her from Houdini-ing out the safety straps and distracting her so she doesn't holler the store down. You surface hours later wandering what happened to your life.
You get home. Baby Flails-a-lot smiles. One of her shiny new sandals is missing. Even though she couldn't reach her feet and the darn things are supposed to be baby proof, she has removed one of them and left it....at Target.
There's nothing to do. You go to the scoreboard and chalk another one up for Baby Flails-a-lot and her sneaky bastard shoes.