Where art thou innocence?

I don’t know when it was, but sometime between my childhood and parenthood, bare footed children became the height of neglect. As a child, freedom from footwear followed freedom from responsibility. The backyard was our summer oasis, relieved from the yolk of academia. The bare, dirt stained foot was no less an icon of liberty than a bald eagle soaring on the updrafts of a hot summer day.

Now I can’t let my son wander the back-country of our family room, sans stockings, without risking the wrath of the in-laws. You’d think I was letting the poor boy run naked through the neighborhood. You ask me, a boy’s feet can’t be coddled. Feet are our ambassadors with the ground; and it’s everywhere… in all shapes, textures, and temperatures. Part of being a child is learning about our world, and not all of not all of it is sheathed in a lycra/cotton blend with rubber exteriors.

I say, let thy feet know the world!

Give the gift of words.