Why do you taunt me so?
It seems like everywhere I walk in the house, I find you. Not a pair of you, mind you. Just one.
In the middle of the living room, on the couch, under the radiator and bed.
You seem to like living the solitary life, Socks.
Just this morning, as I walked G to guitar lessons, I saw one of you on the sidewalk. And then, just a few yards away, in the middle of the road.
It’s like you know where I’m going to be, and then you just plant yourself there.
Except for when I need you, of course.
Like when I wash a brand new pair of you. You know, those really cool colorful ones I got for Christmas. The ones I never wore because, though I put both if you in the washing machine, only one came out.
Where do you go, Socks? You seem to scatter like cockroaches when they get hit with light. I find you all over the place, yet I don’t know where your friends are.
You could put some blame on the males of the house. My husband seems to pepper the house with you. And the boys can never seem to keep you on, no matter how chilly it may be, unless there is a shoe keeping you in place.
That still doesn’t explain how I rarely find two of you at once.
I don’t dare throw you away. As soon as I do, you show up in in my sheets or in the sleeve of that jacket I rarely wear.
We won’t even get into the holes that mysteriously show up when I have to take my shoes off in public.
I wish I could quit you, Socks. But I can’t. I live in Maine, which means it gets cold. Really, really cold. Sometimes, I wear two pair of you in the winter.
We’re stuck with each other, Socks. I hope that by writing this letter, you will have a better understanding of what you put me, and other moms, through on a daily basis.
I don’t expect a complete turn around, Socks. How about a little truce? I’ll look the other way when you are loose in the house if you promise to show up at laundry time.
It’s a start, Socks. I hope we can work together on this situation.