Thank heaven it’s spring in Silicon Valley: I'm tired of washing socks.
We’ve muddled through the fall and winter wearing seasonally appropriate socks and shoes, but I’m relieved to believe I can finally stop scrambling for socks for my younger two kids in a few weeks when we bring out the sandals. Today, my kids played barefoot while dancing with the water fountain at the Cupertino Library/City Hall plaza.
I know, I know, it’s cliché to complain that socks get lost in the wash, but clichés are clichés for a reason ...
I have studied theories and ascribe currently to more than one about why I can’t ever find socks that I know were on feet just last week. (I’ll tell you about that another time – the theories involve static cling, trampolines and the culture in the West San Jose neighborhood where I live.)
To abate the problem Santa brought each of my younger kids – 6 and 8 – a package of 32 pairs of socks for Christmas.
January was a breeze. Need clean socks? No problem – remember the ones Santa brought? February wasn’t so bad because I’ve been on a mission to Keep Track Of Those Socks. I tried to make it like a game show, where matched pairs were worth fabulous prizes, but no one seemed interested enough to help. Nevertheless, I kept up with those 64 pairs of socks, plus the 6,400 other single socks that exist in my life and even when we ran out of new ones around Groundhog Day, I kept my kids’ feet clad in
usually clean socks every day.
But it’s nearly April now and there are never clean socks come Monday morning. Time for school and I’m scrounging in the laundry room’s piles of clean clothes (“Out, out, damn sock,” I say, mocking Macbeth's witches.)
It’s nearly sandal weather, with bare feet close behind. I’ll have many fewer dirty socks to deal with. Dirty feet, yeah. But at least I can usually find those attached to the bottom of the kids’ legs.