I see you. I see the fading bruise on the left ankle from the bike crash. I see the band-aid on the right heel from the blister caused by the new "cool" shoes. I see the faint line of marker where your friend drew a "tattoo" during recess.
At eight, feet are no longer the chubby, squishy little pillows they were as toddlers. They have stretched out. They have become wiry. They are built for one thing: speed.
And the smell . Oh, the smell. Eight-year-old feet have discovered sweat, but they have not yet discovered deodorant or the concept of airing out shoes. When those sneakers come off after a soccer game, we do not simply remove shoes; we perform a hazmat procedure. Open a window. Light a candle. Run. 8 year old feet
You buy a pair of sturdy sneakers in August for back-to-school. They fit perfectly. There is a thumb’s width of room. You feel smug about your budgeting. By October, your child is walking like a penguin because their toes are curled under. "They feel fine," they insist, while clearly suffering.
I watch my son/daughter lace up their sneakers (which, by the way, fit last Tuesday but are suddenly "too tight" today), and I see the engines revving. These feet do not walk. They propel. They skip every third step. They leap off the bottom stair entirely, landing with a thud that shakes the picture frames. They run through the house not because they are in a hurry, but because standing still feels like a personal failure. I see you
I’ll keep buying the wipes for the bottom of the tub, and I’ll keep searching for the matching socks.
You go to the shoe store. The nice salesperson measures the foot. "They’ve gone up a size and a half," she says cheerfully. A size and a half in six weeks. This is the growth rate of a bamboo plant or a Marvel superhero. I see the faint line of marker where
You drive me crazy. You cost me a fortune in socks and shoe leather. You smell like a locker room.