Tyranny of Socks

I hate socks. Wearing them, washing them, folding them. The whole works.

My kids have decided that they don’t like to wear socks either. I insist that they wear them because 1) it’s winter 2) our floors are freezing cold and 3) it’s one less thing they have to round up when we attempt to leave the house.

So they put socks on most mornings and have shed them shortly after breakfast. Sometimes I find them, together even, strewn across the stairs or the living room rug. Sometimes, the kids actually put them in the laundry. (They won’t, of course, put these ones back on, should we need another pair later in the day. We HAVE to get a clean pair.)

But mostly I just find one.

Either because one was stripped upstairs and the other down or because the dogs have taken the stinky treasure and stuffed it in a corner somewhere. If we ever move, we will discover this hidden trove of socks. Until then, my laundry basket is filling up with lonely socks.



  1. Just today, I bit the bullet and actually threw out an orphan sock! Horrible, I know. But it had been sitting around taking up space for the last 3 months without a partner. I feel a little guilty just writing this.


    1. That’s pretty brave. I held on to some baby socks for three years, hoping the match would turn up, but no luck.


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