I just give up completely on socks.
It’s taken twenty years of mothering, but the socks win. It’s just so frustrating to wash twenty socks and have two matched pairs when all is folded and done.
You know the joke about the washer eating them? That was true in my case. In a full load, a small sock can slosh over the top of the washtub and get sucked into the pump. ($150 repair, by the way.)
But, that only partial explains the mystery of what happens to socks in my house.
Exhibit A: The Sock Box.
This is where socks go to die. Not my socks, since I make sure I filch those and take them up to my room even if the pair didn’t make it through the wash together.
I don’t know how this started at my house. I’m sure it was innocently enough in the beginning—a single sock waiting on the dryer for its mate to be cleaned.
Then, a few more singleton socks appeared and, hey, it’s a sock party. I put them in a little baskets so they’d be “organized”.
Over the years the baskets got bigger and bigger and now the Sock Box is an enormous hamper filled with mismatched socks.
The bottom stratum consists of Barney booties circa 1994 for a baby who is now 18.
When the kids do laundry, they just stick ALL the socks in the sock box. They are not even trying anymore.
They just root around in the hamper like a truffle pig when they need to cover their feet. Matching optional, which kind of destroys the whole reason for the sock holding pen in the first place.
Of course, if a sock or seven fall out, those are the invisible socks. Invisible socks are only perceptible through the magic of old estrogen.
Occasionally, like before my mother visits, I’ll pay one of the younger kids a buck or two to pair up the four thousand socks and put the matched sets away.
But, now I am so tired of this that my only option is to concede defeat, ditch all the socks and just put my kids in sandals year round.
Yep, no other option exists. Not one.
Sandals for everyone!