I just went in my older son's bedroom with some clean clothes. He takes one look at me, sees my feet and says, "What are you doing wearing my socks?"
Well, he had a point, so I peel off the socks my sister just made him for his birthday. Meanwhile my younger son--with the highly tuned sense of injustice of a second-born-- smells sock conflict and runs to the scene. "Then you take off MY socks!" he yells at the sock imperialist older brother.
As son number one leans over to strip off his little brother's socks, he sees said little brother's feet--his sock drawer has been infiltrated ! "You're wearing my NEW socks! OFF !" Now we all have bare feet. The boys swap socks and I give the handknit pair back to their owner.
Back at the giant sock basket I toss through a bushel of socks like a chef mixing exotic greens for a massive, mostly black, salad. There are a lot of singles which means there must be a couple loads of laundry on the basement floor with the other halves. All my favorite pairs are either dirty or have holes. Big gaping holes like this:
So I put on a pair of my husband's socks. He's at work and is used to me wearing his clothes anyway. I just bought a pair of nice socks with flowers on them so I could have them all to myself, but I lost them on our trip.
I need to darn socks now. And do another hogshead of laundry. But instead of washing or mending clothes, I have been busy repainting my kitchen.
I think the kitchen looks fantastic, but the sock wars rage on.
