I Walked Barefoot Through a Creek with the Toughest Kid I Know

Yesterday my niece got a Yes Day.

If you don’t know what that is, my husband randomly announces them and the chosen child gets to make the plans. I have repeatedly suggested we retire this tradition. No one listens to me.

She chose the woods.

I chose to ignore my allergies.

Then I somehow found myself walking barefoot through a creek while an eleven-year-old coached me through stepping on rocks.

At one point she told me, “You’ve got this, Aunt Amy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Years ago, I started taking her into the woods.

Yesterday, she led me through them.

On the way back to the car I told her, “You know how people say you never really know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes?”

She smiled and said, “Well, you got to walk in my no shoes today.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Full story in the comments.

Yesterday my husband announced that my niece was getting a Yes Day.

This is a thing he does. It doesn’t have to be a birthday. It doesn’t require a special occasion. One day he’ll just decide a kid gets a Yes Day and suddenly we’re all participating. The chosen child gets to make the plans, and we’re generally not allowed to say no. I have repeatedly suggested we retire this tradition. No one listens to me.

This particular Yes Day happened to fall the day after my niece’s birthday.

Take me to the woods, she said.

Unfortunately for me, I had been up most of the night coughing. My allergies were already trying to kill me, and the woods were currently winning every battle against my sinuses. I warned her. My allergies are really bad today. We don’t have to bring Brute. We can just dig. We don’t have to go to the creek.

That’s okay, she said.

But she kept talking about the creek.

I could tell where she really wanted to go.

Before we left, my husband sprayed us down for ticks. I was so concerned about the tick situation that I insisted he spray our faces too. On the drive over, we were discussing why our lips were numb from bug spray. Great start.

The second we entered the woods, she kicked off her shoes and handed them to me. She loves being barefoot outside. I’m grounding, she’ll say. Or I’m strengthening my feet. Today she was apparently doing both. I surprised her and told her we were heading toward the creek. Her eyes lit up. She bounced down the trail before slowing as we entered the thick summer woods.

Twenty-eight days ago we had been standing in this exact forest during April’s full moon. Back then everything was just beginning to wake up. Now summer had arrived. The plants towered over her. The trail felt narrower. Every rustle seemed louder. In April you can see forever. By late May, everything can see you. The openness was gone. The bugs were everywhere. Every sound made me wonder what was moving just beyond the leaves. Between the branch that nearly took out her eye a few weeks ago and the squirrel that bit her the week after that, I was determined we would not be having another incident today. I admitted something I don’t usually say out loud. I actually get a little more nervous in the woods this time of year. She didn’t. She was too excited about the creek.

When we finally reached it, she ran in and then immediately ran back out.

Can you put my Tamagotchi in the backpack?

Priorities.

Then I made a decision.

Let’s just walk the creek to the bridge and climb out there.

My niece immediately stepped into the water barefoot. I followed.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Every tiny pebble felt like punishment. Fish darted around my feet while my niece wandered through the creek like she was starring in a nature documentary.

It’s like acupuncture, she announced.

This is not acupuncture, child. This is pain.

She laughed.

I kept stepping on rocks.

At some point I started talking myself through it. You can do this. You’re brave. You’ve watched her do this a hundred times. Then she looked back at me.

You’ve got this, Aunt Amy.

I won’t let anything happen to you.

And just like that, something shifted.

For years I had been the one leading her through the woods. Today she was leading me.

We continued through the creek, winding around fallen trees and little pools of fish. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and reflected off the water. It was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes you stop talking for a minute. The water was clear. Fish darted around us. The creek wound through the woods like a secret passage. I found myself paying less attention to my allergies and more attention to where she was headed next. Eventually we reached a stretch where the creek widened and sunlight poured through the trees. I decided it was time to ruin my new sneakers and put them back on. My confidence immediately returned. I could finally lead again instead of hobbling through the creek like an injured pioneer.

Which lasted about ten minutes.

A little later I confidently announced that I knew exactly where we could climb out. My niece followed me right into a dead end. We turned around. I slipped. And landed directly on my butt.

She came running over.

Oh no! My Tamagotchi!

I looked up from the creek.

What about me?

A little water won’t hurt you, she said. It’ll kill him.

Fair point.

While I was performing emergency Tamagotchi protection procedures, something suddenly brushed over the top of my head. A loud rush of wings exploded above me. My niece started laughing so hard she could barely stand. A mallard had flown inches over my head before landing in the creek ahead of us. Apparently there usually aren’t humans standing in the middle of its living room.

Eventually we reached the bridge.

And the tunnel.

The tunnel I absolutely did not want her walking through.

She was insistent.

I checked it out. It was clean. It wasn’t slippery. So I watched her walk through while I climbed the hill, crossed above, and met her on the other side. Naturally she had the easiest climb out imaginable.

By the time we finally reached the trail again, I discovered my shoes were full of tiny rocks. Walking on the trail somehow hurt worse than walking in the creek. I took them back off and walked barefoot through the grass while my eleven-year-old niece continued her barefoot adventure like some kind of woodland professional. Oddly enough, my cough had been fairly quiet through most of the creek walk. The allergies never left. I was still sniffling. I still had to blow my nose. But somewhere between the rocks, the fish, the duck, the tunnel, and protecting a Tamagotchi from certain death, my body seemed to have bigger things to focus on. The second we reached safety, everything came roaring back. The sneezing. The coughing. The runny nose. Apparently my allergies had simply been waiting their turn.

A little farther down the trail, my niece finally stopped walking.

My feet hurt, she admitted.

Put your shoes on.

No thank you.

I’m still grounding.

Of course she was.

A little later, as we made our way back to the car, I looked at her and laughed.

You know how people say you never really know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes?

She grinned.

Well, you got to walk in my no shoes today.

I laughed so hard I nearly started coughing again.

She wasn’t wrong.

For years I’ve watched her run barefoot through the woods, splash through creeks, climb over logs, and disappear down trails without thinking much of it. Then I spent one afternoon trying it myself.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Turns out my niece is a lot tougher than I am.

A lot braver too.

I thought I was taking her into the woods.

Instead, she spent the afternoon showing me a world she had already learned how to navigate.