Everywhere I look, there are children’s socks. In the middle of the floor, tucked away in every dark corner, oozing and sagging from the crumb-infested spaces between couch cushions, strewn wildly across every table and counter in sight, even hanging from light fixtures.
No matter how diligently my partner and I gather up the socks and place them in various laundry hampers scattered throughout the house (placed strategically in ill-fated attempts to prevent the current sockpocalypse), they always seem to replenish themselves at an alarming rate. The sock count never decreases. Remove a sock from one room, and two more will paranormally appear in another.
There is no escaping the omnipresence of the children’s socks in our house. Nowhere you can hide, nowhere you can avert your gaze for a sockless view. To attempt relief would lead to madness; a cold, shivering madness, huddled in a remote corner of the household, rocking back and forth, enveloped by darkness, tears, and the ever-present socks.
And yet, without fail, when the school bus is mere seconds away and my kids are scrambling to get out the door, despite having had ample time to prepare before that moment, I will look down at the naked flesh of their tiny feet and gasp in horror. “Where are your socks?” I will cry.
What do you suppose their answer will be? What words will they utter, standing in this house amidst the immortal, suffocating piles of hastily discarded children’s socks as far as the eye can see?
“I couldn’t find any socks!”
And so the madness consumes us all.
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