Sunday, January 5, 2014


I don't often think about socks. I need socks, very much. My feet are always cold. And I like patterned socks, but the socks I have the most of are black. I guess I'm practical that way. What I don't like are socks lying around my house. But with four kids and a husband who doesn't treasure cleanliness the way I do, I tend to pick up a fair amount of socks, most of which are dirty.

Last night, as I was making my rounds about the house, I noticed a pair of inside out socks on top of the piano. Okay, let me say this. I've been known to ignore socks near chairs, at the back hallway, or on top of the bed. Perhaps someone needs to go back to those. But on top of the piano? And they were the heart socks that I swear Zoe had had on for three days. (It's vacation here. We get a little lax about things like making sure the kids get dressed, shower, you know, all the personal hygiene stuff. But don't fear. We had some friends over late last week. so we cleaned the house. Priorities.) I quickly grabbed those socks; they went upstairs with me and into the wash basket in my room.

Five minutes (maybe not even) later, I saw the girls scurry around the house, looking for socks.
Talia: Mom! I'm looking for socks.
Me: They're on your feet.
Zoe: [Scowl.]
Me: What sort of socks?
Talia: Zoe's socks.
Me: Well, I found a pair of heart socks on the piano. I put them in the wash basket upstairs.
Talia: Zoe!
Zoe: [Scowl. She charges up the stairs.]
Talia: ZOE!
Me: I think those were Zoe's socks. Did she hear me?
Talia: Dunno.
The girls got ready for bed, and I walked into their room to say goodnight. Zoe was on the top bunk, sniffling.
Me: Is this about the socks?
Zoe:  [Nothing. Zoe really has an incredible ability to stay silent. Stubborn lass.]
Me: Really, Zoe? Is this about the socks?
Zoe: [Nothing. See above.]
Me: All right, Zoe, this is disrespectful.
Zoe: I like those socks.
Me: [Thank goodness she didn't see that enormous eye roll I just performed.] They were on top of the piano. That isn't where your socks should be. Get some other socks.
Zoe: I like those socks.
There is no arguing with an almost twelve-year-old. So I didn't bother. I looked around the giant mess they call a room, told her that I saw plenty of socks on the stuffed chair, which was overrun with what I hope to be clean clothes. I thrust a pair at her and walked away.

She might have sniffled all night about those socks. Me and my heartless self? I had a good laugh before falling asleep.


Kelsey said...

Ah - I like when you tell these stories. I hope I remember some of this for when Harper is that age. Your girls seems so sweet and smart and level-headed - If Zoe can cry about socks I feel like that's a gauge for the craziness of adolescence.

Christina said...