Sunday, September 21, 2008

Socklaw

Another reason to mourn the end of summer: socks reappear in the laundry.

Article One of Socklaw:
For as long as the weather deems socks less than essential, there shall be no wearing of socks.


I don't really like socks. It's an extra step getting dressed, but more importantly, they're the most miserable aspect of laundry, which is pretty much systemically miserable already. The less I wear socks, the less I have to match socks post-laundering. I've held this theory for years, the sock-avoidance one. It's been so much more applicable since having children. Those little tiny socks are the work of my nightmares. They're so little they hide in other laundry, and they come in about 12 sizes just for the first year of life. It's just too much to track. So as soon as it gets at all warm, the girls and I, we're a barefoot clan. Luckily, so many cute shoes would object to being shoved on top of socks.

M has a tough life, requiring business suits most days, so he can't follow the barefoot path. And men's socks are horrible: the blacks and the navys and the six different kinds of tan and the subtle patterns. And M's terrible system--he doesn't match them at all after they emerge from the laundry, but rather lets a million loose singletons float anarchically in a scary sock drawer, and he contends with finding one matched pair per morning. It wouldn't be an exaggerating metaphor to describe this act as reaching bare-handed into a tank of menacing snakes. But this has been his "system" since long before me; hence

Article Two of Socklaw:
Any person old enough to manage his own socks is exempted from Socklaw. And on his own. Living outside the law means dealing with the consequences.


This weekend I did a very no-fun thing. I put away the summeriest of the girls' clothes and I pulled out the mildest of their winter clothes. Sadly, it marked the return of the dreaded socks. The whole process is wearying. So many clothes to sort. So many favorites to hide and make disappear because their owner would never willingly part with them (yeah, E, you). So many decisions: is this really too heavy to pull out right now? Most decisions were made by fabric: flannels, fleeces, corduroys stayed in their bags. But some decisions were more difficult: should a sleeveless dress stay out if it could be paired perfectly well with this cardigan, thereby extending its seasonal viability? And the secondary question: even if it could, should it? If I leave that dress out, that's just more valuable drawer space I'm leaving occupied. These girls have A LOT OF CLOTHING. Space is a bit precious.

September 21, 2008

Portrait of a sock-matching volunteer

I had a helper with matching all those socks. L was a generous participant. The only problem was that I was trying to match by size and color, and she seemed to be using some sort of self-devised taste test to determine appropriate matches. And if my work did not meet her satisfaction, she showed no mercy in unballing my balled matches. But she was the only help I had, so I couldn't complain too much.

That being said, though, I don't understand where all these dozens of unmatchable socks come from. Two girls not quite two years apart means A LOT of socks in various shades of pinks and creams and purples. And it's not visually easy to tell a purple 12-24 month sock from a purple 2T sock. I need help.

Article Three of Socklaw:
Whoever came up with the idea of using the non-skid puffy stuff on the bottom of kids' socks to print the size of the sock should be rewarded with great riches. And whichever company does not participate in this practice shall herewith be denied my sock business.


The mornings have been a little cool. (I know it's almost October. I don't want to talk about it, okay?) So when we left for the bagel shop this morning we put socks on L's feet. Like any good baby, she played with them until she pulled them off. So she's the normal kid. E has seen socks this weekend and reacted like they're spun gold. She is in love with socks.


September 21, 2008

Portrait of old-man chic, short shorts and lavender Crocs style.

This girl has her own style. I have nothing to worry about, do I?

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