Where are your baby’s socks? Mandy, where are your baby’s socks?
Well, that’s a great question, and I honestly don’t have an answer for you. Where the hell are my kid’s socks? It’s a question that I ponder frequently throughout my day. I don’t know what he does with them. I know that before he exits our home he has them on, but when we reach our destination, your guess is as good as mine.
My thoughts on where his socks might be found are as follows:
1. Somewhere in the car.
2. He ate them.
3. He is an undercover magician.
4. He ditched them before we ever got to the car.
5. He and the dogs are in this together.
6. He throws them out the car window.
7. He shoves them down his diaper.
8. He’s selling them on the black market.
9. He’s donating them to underprivileged babies.
10. He’s just trying to break me down to see how long it takes before I go insane.
I have bought this kid socks—oh, the socks. I have no evidence of it other than my credit card transactions, mind you. There are no socks in his dressers, in his closets, or in a box. He does not like those little socks, he does not like them (Sam, I am…).
I know that when I walk into a store sans socks but with a coat on him, people stare. I hear the snickers and the comments (“That baby should have socks on!”). Well, unless I superglue some socks on him, they aren’t staying on this kid, lady. So you keep your parenting judgements right over there. I just can’t help it.
I have even gone as far as keeping a spare pair in my purse. I’m that crazy sock lady, people. I even put socks on him in the store, but halfway through the shopping trip—bam—“Where are your socks?” Here I am getting green beans, and there they are looking me in the face, little bitty toes. Nope, I’m just not doing it. It’s not worth the madness.
I’ve got about three hundred million other things—parenting and otherwise—I could be doing other than trying to keep this kid’s socks on, mind you. I could be chasing him around the house or looking up random recipes on Pinterest that I most likely never end up making. I could be watching reruns of That ’70s Show on Netflix. I could be shopping for more stupid socks that he will most likely lose within a freaking nanosecond. What I will not do is try to keep up with your judgment to make you feel better about my parenting, because, hey, he is clean! He is breathing! He is not freezing to death! I call that a win for this mom. Go me!”
So, if you see me out, my kid will not have socks on. And it’s not because I am a horrible parent (or maybe it is?). This no-sock thing I’m currently doing, it’s honestly just for my emotional well-being right now. Some kids don’t like green beans; mine doesn’t like socks. I just don’t care anymore. No more socks for anyone.