Socks

It's not that I don't enjoy wearing socks. In fact, I'll be the first to admit that on a cold morning, there is nothing more pleasing than pampering my tender tootsies with a fresh pair of soft Smartwool. Not only are my socks comfortable, they are also stink absorbers, and they aide in the prevention of foot blisters. But, as you may have guessed from the first sentence, this blog is not about my love of socks. Au contraire, mon ami, I want you to see that it will be socks that ultimately drive me to an early grave.

It was hard enough as a singleton to keep track of my own socks. I swear, I would put a pair in the washer and by the time the load was done, the pair would be reduced to just one. Puzzled, as though confronted with one of life's greatest mysteries, I would rack my brain for clues to the whereabouts of the missing sock. Did the washer machine eat it? Did the dryer's heat react with my eau de pied and cause it to spontaneously combust? Did the mischievous ghost of Tuscarora Manor think it was funny to watch me spin in circles? ‘Dunno. After a while, I had no choice but to mix and match...but it was hard to admit defeat. I told people that wearing a blue trouser sock with a white ankle was what all the cool kids were doing nowadays. Hell yes, I started that trend.

Then I moved in with Ken. Now, not only did I have double the socks to manage, I was dealing with a dude that believes that "like socks" should ALWAYS be paired together (*cough* he's an engineer). We didn't know it at the time (though, I myself suspected) that Ken has ADHD. He can be easily distracted when dealing with mundane tasks. Mundane tasks such as TAKING OFF ONE'S SOCKS. It's not unusual for Ken to take off one sock by the couch and the other one in the bedroom. So, when only one sock gets tossed in the dirty clothes hamper, is it a crime to match it with another lost sock soul? Hardly, especially when all of his socks are black anyway. To the naked eye, and when the foot is stuffed in a shoe, you can't tell whether the sock has 6 rows of ribbing or just three. So, passive-aggressive as it sounds, I will continue to encourage the mixed sock relationships, until Ken puts both his socks into the washer at the same time.

Now we have the children's socks to contend with. To all the new mothers out there, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Baby socks are tiny and babies HATE wearing them. They quietly (if you’re lucky) kick them off (if you’re unlucky they do it loudly). They throw them out of their strollers and smile knowingly to themselves. Baby socks have the life span of WWI front line messenger, which by the way is the riskiest job you could have in WWI, it was also what Adolf Hitler did – weird huh? They say, "don't sweat the small stuff" but dammit, those baby socks keep me up at night.

I'm not the only one in the house that has a love/hate relationship with socks. Our dog Morley believes that socks are small animals that need to be eaten. Who can blame her? They smell feral enough, they look furry, and for all I know, our socks really are possessed. I picture them inching across our floor in a mad effort to escape when we aren't looking. Only the dog sees them in action and as protector of the house, it's up to HER to put a stop to the sneaky sock shenanigans.

A few months back I got a startling phone call from Ken. He was walking Morley in the park while I was tending to our newborn daughter.

"We've had a bit of an emergency," announced Ken. My heart skipped a beat. I consider Morley our first born "adopted" daughter and any situation described as an emergency WILL take years off my life.

"Everything is under control now but..." Ken's voice started to take on a nervous tone.

"But WHAT?" I demanded.

"Morley and I were playing fetch and..." My mind instantly went to the worst possible scenarios. A rogue car plunged through the park and took out every tree and dog in sight; a reenactment of Alfred Hitchcock's, The Birds, played out in Bowness; the dog catcher apprehended Morley and arrested Ken for playing "illegal doggie park". I let Ken continue.

"Morley had to poop."

"Yes...?" my eyes narrowed. Where was he going with this?

He elaborated further: Morley had to poop and she started to panic. Ken didn't know what was happening. They locked eyes and she gave him a pleading, wild look, and the next thing he knew she was squatting like a baseball catcher and inching her way towards him. When she got to Ken, she literally sighed and showed him her problem. A sock was...stuck.

"Eeeee! Did you help her???" I inquired, breathing once again.

"Of course I helped her!" Ken defended. "But she won't look me in the eye anymore!"

I wish I could say that this event taught Morley a lesson. But for the next week, those darn socks kept getting the better of her. One day I came home to a stricken Edna (our nanny/housekeeper) who was quietly hovering over the kitchen sink. She whispered,

"Christina, I didn't know what to do... Morley threw up 5 socks. I'm trying to wash them...is that okay?"

My response: "Edna, it was very brave to try to rescue those critters-er-socks...but we will be throwing them out now. Thanks.”

The rate of disappearing socks slowed. We became more vigilant about keeping them out of sight but recently, I discovered that Ella's lady bug slipper has gone AWOL. Glancing accusingly at Morley, she slinks away with that guilty look in her eye.

I guess time will tell if she is the culprit. Until it's found, in whatever capacity that may be, I will continue to worry and Ella will be sporting one lady bug slipper and one flower slipper. All the other babies will be envious because that’s how the cool infants wear them.