****WARNING: THIS BLOG IS A JOKE....So it's okay to laugh at this Ninja Mom Rant*******
I have come to the conclusion that socks are evil. Sure, they keep your feet warm and make for the perfect all-purpose floor mop. However they are diabolical. Somehow one always gets lost. In couches, corners, wooded areas, and drawers all across the globe there is a mismatched treasure trove of the extra socks no one wants to throw away for fear they will one day find its mate and together the two socks can once again live happily ever after. I find going through those extra socks can sometimes be like searching a coal mine for a diamond. Perhaps next time I try I should bring in a magnifying glass to help me in my quest.
Socks have become a measure in which other parents set forth a ruler to judge the other. We’ve all been there, it’s some fancy event, Birthday Party, or neighborhood game of dodgeball meets Hokey Pokey. Your silent Arch Rival stands three feet from you while her child is wearing the most brilliantly whitened and matching socks that somehow beams of light exude out of them; as your child takes off their shoes you realize this is the day she is wearing one sock that is hot pink and the other is multi-colored polka dots with a hole exposing the big toe. You see your rivals sidekick snicker and whisper, “I’m sure she is a horrible housekeeper.” They laugh together in some shared silent moment of affirming their own domestic skills.
Honestly I would want to shout back, “You are correct, I am a horrible housekeeper. I don’t feel like I ever applied for this job. I’ve never claimed to be a Miss Suzy Homemaker.” However I know my moment wouldn’t help the situation any. You know silently your grandmother, if she was still alive to witness this, would be furious with you. In fact you make a mental list again to attempt to throw away all extra socks and rush to the closest store to buy bags of new ones to add to your collection. You will color coordinate and try again. Truthfully you know you’re lying to yourself. It’ll only take a few months for the barrage of orphaned socks to collect again. Secretly you wonder if your time in college would have been better suited if you’d taken a class in ‘Sock Location’ and ‘How to Take Sarcasm out of Socks.’
I support my teen daughter’s decision to just go mismatched. She calls it a fashion statement. I call it ‘Survival at its Finest.’ I support my husband’s choice to wear the same basic black socks for the last fifteen years. He’s never told me so, but I know that his theory is that I couldn’t mess those up.
Deep in the crevices of my washer, dryer vent, in light fixtures, and on rooftops I know those socks have their own pain. They congregate in numbers and tell their woes as if in a support group. One lonely tube will speak up about how I washed it with a tie-dyed T-shirt and now it’ll never match their match.
I have often suggested my husband could fire me from the job of Laundry Royalty, but I know somehow that will never work. I figure I’ll have a cup of tea, and everyone will just learn to make due. I’ll pretend that when my youngest daughter wears one fluffy sparkle sock and the other dirty white it really doesn’t bother me who is there to see it. I’ll tell myself of all the ways I can be an incredible “Super Mom” with those extra socks. We could make sock puppets, a cup cozy, sew them into a cape, or a scented rice filled neck warmer. Maybe I can even open up an Etsy store, and help my oldest with her college tuition fund. I could write a Self-Help book and call it, “My Forgotten Socks and Me.” Perhaps the New York Times Bestseller list isn’t ready for that yet. I’ll remind myself that everyone has dirty laundry somewhere and maybe mine is just a little more exposed. Maybe I’ll try to be trendy myself by sporting a knee-high striped baseball sock with a lime green footie. Whatever I do, I will not let these orphaned socks get the best of me. I will shake my fist at their defiance. I will opt to renew my love of wearing sandals, and keep my socks on the floor.