At night....they multiply. They grow more prolific and seem to take over every inch of my house. I try my best to keep up, but seem to fail no matter what course of action I take. What, you may ask, are these vile vermin?
SOCKS.
The laundry is never-ceasing. Most of it is my daughter's. Livi will change her outfit about 472 times a day, and she'll pull down clothes in the quest for the right pair of pants or whatever. So the dirty clothes, somewhat dirty clothes, clean clothes, etc. are all merged into one massive pile. Therefore, I usually end up having to wash the whole thing. I dutifully load up the clothes and then transfer them into the dryer. Once dry, a magical thing occurs. Somehow, even though my daughter will have only worn one pair of socks, I will find that there are now three. Yes--three. Because that's the other rule to socks. There always seems to be one left over. I will find other socks scattered throughout the house, but they never match the odd socks. Over time, I will have about six odd socks milling about my house. Soon, my kids are reduced to about two pairs of socks, and I reach that parental moral dilemma. Do I buy more socks? Because you know what happens when you do. The socks, confident in their victory start emerging--gradually reuniting with their long, lost comrades. Now my children have about 30 pairs of socks, which can only mean one thing. Growth spurt. Socks are also one of those questionable donated items. Underwear--no. Socks--hmmm. Is it icky to donate socks? So I usually end up smuggling them to the very bottom of the box, the depth of my shame. I try to put some really good stuff on top of them, as if to assuage the forth-coming wrath of the workers who will find them. I also wonder if it is not some-what cruel to foist upon some unsuspecting person these agents of depravity and evil. They never knew that their time had come.
Ask not from whom the sock hides--it hides from Thee.
SOCKS.
The laundry is never-ceasing. Most of it is my daughter's. Livi will change her outfit about 472 times a day, and she'll pull down clothes in the quest for the right pair of pants or whatever. So the dirty clothes, somewhat dirty clothes, clean clothes, etc. are all merged into one massive pile. Therefore, I usually end up having to wash the whole thing. I dutifully load up the clothes and then transfer them into the dryer. Once dry, a magical thing occurs. Somehow, even though my daughter will have only worn one pair of socks, I will find that there are now three. Yes--three. Because that's the other rule to socks. There always seems to be one left over. I will find other socks scattered throughout the house, but they never match the odd socks. Over time, I will have about six odd socks milling about my house. Soon, my kids are reduced to about two pairs of socks, and I reach that parental moral dilemma. Do I buy more socks? Because you know what happens when you do. The socks, confident in their victory start emerging--gradually reuniting with their long, lost comrades. Now my children have about 30 pairs of socks, which can only mean one thing. Growth spurt. Socks are also one of those questionable donated items. Underwear--no. Socks--hmmm. Is it icky to donate socks? So I usually end up smuggling them to the very bottom of the box, the depth of my shame. I try to put some really good stuff on top of them, as if to assuage the forth-coming wrath of the workers who will find them. I also wonder if it is not some-what cruel to foist upon some unsuspecting person these agents of depravity and evil. They never knew that their time had come.
Ask not from whom the sock hides--it hides from Thee.
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