Financially, 8-year-old feet are terrorists.

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.

You drive me crazy. You cost me a fortune in socks and shoe leather. You smell like a locker room.

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.

But please, don't grow up too fast. Keep jumping off the couch. Keep skipping the last step. Keep running through the wet grass.

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.

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.

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.

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.