In most cases, socks live in pairs, beautifully matched if unevenly worn. In our home, they live alone.
My toddler’s socks may be strangely stained, found strewn behind the piano or next to the toilet or under the fridge. Pomegranate juice is completely indelible, incidentally. Why did I give her pomegranate juice? Lapse of judgment. I don’t know.
My 3 year old’s newest adventures involve changing her clothes constantly. The endless runway show is her favorite game. Or the task of trying to wear every article of clothing she owns, all at once. This happened a few months ago, mostly. She was a marshmallow balloon and required help in both the donning and disrobing. Sure there were a few hats or coats that simply wouldn’t go on without tearing, towards the end. Part of her fashion sense is to make absolutely sure that the two socks riding her feet at any given time are different from one another. Pink with spots and green and yellow stripes seem to be a favorite. Or I have heavy gray winter socks. She likes to just use one of these and keep the other toes free to breathe.
And so, as any parent moving in rocket-fast octopus fashion, I now notice that the socks all fly solo. They find their own ways in the world and land where they please. Once a flying sock landed in my pint of Guinness, while I attempted a rare glimpse of TV. And that was the end of that. I grab her socks as I move through the house and they find their way to a laundry basket and this is basically their end. For reasons beyond me, once they arrive, their partner bond is broken. The clean socks come out and are alone. I give them randomly to each other out of habit, folded into one another, but should probably return them loose to her drawer. Maybe I’ll one day earn the courage to start wearing mismatched socks myself.