The Washing Machine Eats Socks
“How aggravating!” I sputter as I fold and pile the laundry load. The socks from the ten packs of Hanes that I just bought last week for the kids is disappearing faster than M & M’s in the cupboard!
It’s absolutely insane how socks can’t behave properly. Single socks pop up like bad weeds, but their mates are MIA. Keeping socks paired for this household feels like herding cats--a futile and hopeless activity. But I’m not a quitter. A little grit and determination and I will have matching socks lying meekly in the drawer where they belong!
We all know washing machines eat socks. Not pairs of socks. The trusty Maytag seems to prefer only one of each pair. Is it the left or right socks the machine fancies? I never can tell, but there’s always a potpourri of lone socks in every load.
I confiscate unpaired socks that are frisking in the toy box, hiding in pants legs and sheets, loitering in a mud puddle in the yard, stuck into my purse and, really, almost anywhere. Why two socks meant to be together repel each other like magnets is a mystery on the level of a John Grisham.
I can’t throw any sock out. Keeping children in socks isn’t cheap. I hold onto hope that the other sock is somewhere and will show up. I toss them all into the odd-socks basket to languish until I have time to match them up.
The socks clump and dangle over the basket in an exasperating disorderly jumble. The heap threatens to overflow and creep under the laundry room door, into the hallway. Socks begin to haunt me in my dreams.
Finally, I pull out the odd-socks basket. I begin the tedious task of sorting through them. Long black socks together, white wool socks in a pile. Green socks, blue socks, tall socks, crew socks, did we get invaded by Dr Seuss socks?
I am feeling accomplished with stacks neatly sorted and a nicely piled number of paired socks. Then the door opens. In breezes a daughter with her boyfriend. We don’t know him well yet, but he seems like a nice young man. I welcome them in and urge them to join me amongst the socks. My daughter’s friend doesn’t come from a large family. I wonder what he thinks of my odd-sock sorting. We chat brightly about various topics unrelated to socks. But the elephant grows larger by the minute. Finally, I have to ask, “Jazz, have you ever seen so many socks?” He pauses for a moment surveying my mounds and piles. “Only at Walmart,” he answers.
Since then I’ve allowed myself to let go of odd-socks. It took a few sessions of therapy, but it was worth it. I began to throw out socks without a mate. Now, I notice that my grandchildren wear mismatched socks! What a concept! The stress I could have been spared if my children had done that! Looking back, maybe I could have put less importance on pairing socks and more on connecting with my middle-schooler.
Socks. Did I really put so much energy into socks?? How many other silly things are good for a rueful laugh when I look at them in the rearview mirror? But maybe it wasn’t just a wacky habit. If you look beneath the surface, could you possibly discern an ulterior motive? Maybe…I dunno know…do you think I glimpsed a rewarding outcome in managing socks? Maybe if I dotted the ‘i’s” and crossed the “t’s” of socks, then everything would turn out well in life. If I pinched the pennies of sock-buying, then I could feel proficient and wise. It was harder to find fulfillment in the wailing-through-the-night baby, screaming-in-the-toy-aisle toddler or hiding-behind-his-bangs teen. At least there’s some logic to socks, for the most part.
Maybe you muddle through sock sorting as I did. If you hiccup through mothering too, it’s also okay. Parenting isn’t perfect. It is meant to be imperfect. How unsettling would it be if your children see a mother who doesn’t make mistakes? Is it possible that your imperfections take a lot of stress off from life? Is it possible that your children can appreciate being allowed to live a less than perfect life too? Perhaps mismatched socks or a silly sock sorting mom gives kids permission to be mismatched and a little wonky too. We can all take a deep breath, pull up our crazy mismatched socks and grin with relief. It’s okay.
My babies are all grown up, and even the tired ol’ Maytag gave up the ghost. Canadian Man and I chuckle over the odd-socks saga now and again. Sometimes I’m tempted to feed our new vibrant washer the few odd-socks we find just for fun. Then again, I like what the grandkids do, and we may be sporting our own mismatched socks to church next Sunday morning!
