Specifically, the speed away from the dinner table when a vegetable is mentioned.
Just... please put your shoes in the hallway, not directly in front of the washing machine. A parent can dream.
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.
These feet are brave. They jump off swings at the apex of the arc. They run barefoot across hot driveway asphalt to get to the sprinkler. They stomp in puddles with zero regard for the consequences. They tap impatiently when waiting for a video game to load. Specifically, the speed away from the dinner table
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.
Despite the chaos, I am in awe of the engineering of an 8-year-old foot. A parent can dream
I am convinced that 8-year-olds have a unique metabolism that dissolves the heel of a sock within 30 minutes of wear. The heel goes gray, then thin, then—poof—a hole appears. Your child will not notice. They will wear the sock with their big toe sticking out for three days until you intervene.
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.