Is there anything cuter than a baby’s feet? No way. Baby bunnies look like old stew compared to pudgy little baby feet. The tiny toes. The pads of fat on the soles that have never seen a mile’s walk or even the inside of a pair of Robeez. Precious.

When my oldest son was an infant, I simply could not resist kissing the bottom of his feet.

These days, no so much.

He’s eleven now, and his feet have come to represent what has happened to me as a parent. Sure, I sold my car because he left his damp sneakers in it on a July afternoon with the windows rolled up parked in the full sun, but the stench isn’t the primary thing. Thought it is significant.

What has me taking stock, feeling a little grey and grizzled as a parent, is the size and condition of his feet. Or, to be more specific, I have the Size 8.5 and Nasty Shoes Blues.