On top of the trends, my kids run barefoot.

This post  is a repeat from exactly 12 years ago: we originally published it on May 24, 2010, just two months after our first book came out.

The other day, I was searching for something in our website, and, as often happens on the www, I can’t find what I’m looking for, but I find something more interesting.

Stumbling upon it was like finding a picture I love but had forgotten about, so I cut and pasted it into a document so I could save it, print it out, stuff it into a folder, and stumble across it again in a few more years.

Today, our editorial schedule had me writing my final installment of 10 Birthday Rules: How to Make Things Easier. As often happens on a Monday, time seemed to fly by on double speed, and by about 2 pm, I knew I didn’t have the mental space I wanted to give a brand new post.

That’s one way to make things easier: be aware of when you don’t have the resources to produce the desired outcome. (Hard to admit in the intellectual realm, but then again, I wouldn’t attempt to bake a cake if we were out of flour.)

I hope this post brings a smile to your face, as it did mine—and elicits some since-forgotten memories of your own. (And the 10 Rules to Make Things Easier will appear in June. Promise.)—Dimity

“Mom, time me,” says Amelia, out of nowhere. I’m pulling errant grass stalks out of a violet patch and she’s decided it’s time for some fartleks.  “I’ll run around this tree 3 times.”

Ready, set, go. I study my watch as if I really timed her, and say, “12 seconds. That’s really fast. Nice job.”

“Mom, I’ll run around it 5 times,” says Ben, suddenly over the futile pursuit of chopping black ants in half, “But I don’t want you to time me.”

Ready, set, go. “No time,” he reminds me as he takes off. He pants within four steps, imitating exactly what his beloved older sister did. “Wow, five whole times!” I overpraise, “You’re a really good runner!”

Amelia ups the ante: 10. Ben asks what is more than 10. “12,” I say.

“O.k., then I’ll do 12,” he says, unfazed by the challenge, “Time me this time.”

He walks around lap 9, but dutifully starts jogging after a few steps and obeys my command to run as fast as he can for lap 12. “How long?” he asks, truly winded this time.

“84 seconds,” I say. Amelia goes for 15, and breaks the tape in a blazing 74 (not so very carefully timed) seconds.

Amelia fetches some water, and Ben, eager to be as capable as his sister three years older, says, “Now I’ll do 15, mom.”

“I’ll fill up this glass, and get Ben another one,” Amelia says, clearly impressed, “That’s a lot of running.”

He rounds the tree and surrounding flower bed, probably about 35 feet in length for one lap, 15 times. Lots of panting, followed by an overly dramatic dive bomb into the grass. He eventually gets up, and I’m sure he’s done.

“I’ll do 17, Ben. That’s way more than 15,” Amelia responds, as she hands him two full glasses of icy water, one in each hand.

He sips one, then quickly sets them down. “Oh, me too.”

“Then lets do 20,” she says.

“O.k., ” he says, repeating his answer to every request she’s ever made of him. He’s infatuated.

I explain to Ben I’ll count down four full hands to get to 20, and they’re off.

And I sit and slowly fold my fingers down after each lap, wishing I could freeze this moment, this spring afternoon when all that matters is circling a tree again and again.