What is it about boys and their socks? Sure, you rarely get that pair of hand me down pants because the knees are worn out. Sure, they stain all their shirts. Sure, they forget to change their underwear even when you hand them a new pair and say, "Change into these now!"
Socks, however, that belong to a son is a double sock monster whammy! The most bizarre holes I have ever seen, the elastic has retired and become string, and don't even bother discussing a deal with the washing machine for the hostages. Boy's socks don't even make it to the wash in pairs.
A son's socks can be found in the lawn, in an ant hill, in the dog house, under the couch and in a tree. When you ask him, "Where are your socks?" He claims he doesn't know.
I've tried throwing away the footwear reprobates. For boys that have no clue what they have done with their own socks that they removed from their own feet, they have an uncanny ability to ferret out socks crying out in distress from rubbish bins.
My sons, who claim to not hear me when I ask them to clean up, can hear the whispered plea of an endangered tube sock. They then rescue said socks with the skill of a Navy Seal. Mother must not know that Operation Toe Cover is under way.
"Why?" I ask the dirt covered child, standing there with his arms hugged tight around him, squeezing the last breath out of a dying wad of cotton. "Why would you dig in the trash for a sock that has a hole bigger than your head?"
"It was my favorite pair." Replies the stubborn little voice.
I only hope he has the same passion for his future wife. |
Jul. 7, 2006
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The Sock Story
Jul. 7, 2006
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Untitled Comment
Jul. 8, 2006
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this is a pandemic!
