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You drive me crazy. You cost me a fortune in socks and shoe leather. You smell like a locker room.
I’ll keep buying the wipes for the bottom of the tub, and I’ll keep searching for the matching socks.
If you have ever lived with an 8-year-old, you know that they are a walking paradox. One minute they are reciting facts about black holes with the seriousness of a NASA engineer, and the next, they are trying to see how far they can slide across the kitchen floor in their socks. 8 year old feet
If you want to know where an 8-year-old has been, you don't need a GPS tracker. Just look at the bottom of their feet.
So, to the 8-year-old feet currently kicking the back of my car seat: You drive me crazy
It is the perfect middle ground. It has lost the baby fat but hasn't yet developed the hard calluses of adulthood. It can balance on a curb for a full block. It can grip the rungs of a jungle gym. It can kick a ball hard enough to bruise your shin.
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. I’ll keep buying the wipes for the bottom
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.