Screaming at Socks

Sometimes having small children makes you want to scream. (Having older children might have the same effect, but I’ve never had older children, so I won’t comment.) And I don’t mean just the, “stop kicking the dog/hitting your sister/licking the door!” kind of screaming. I mean, full on, incoherent, being-attacked-by-killer-bees screaming. I’m talking sit down and have a full on two year old tantrum, screaming. That’s the kind of screaming I’m talking about. If you haven’t experienced that feeling then either your children are very young, or I greatly dislike you, and your genetically well behaved little children.

Sometimes this occurs because all of the children seem to be doing it. Who doesn’t want to fit in? Plus, there’s nothing like a whole world of dueling incoherent screaming to make one lose their mind, quickly. Did you know unpredictable noise is one of the biggest stressors? Neither do my children, apparently. That, or they’re working on some new sort of war time torture routine. Seriously, I’ll let the state department borrow my kids. They could make June Cleaver admit to the Kennedy assassination through pure volume.

Either way, the wanting to scream thing is pretty normal. At least around here. Today I was getting this urge. Not quite the killer-bees-are-attacking kind of screaming, but close. You know what set me off? Socks. Yup, socks. It’s not a typo. I’ve been working my way through folding eight laundry baskets full of clothes. Why are their eight laundry baskets full of clothes? you ask. Well, because I have bronchitis, I am the only one to wash, dry, carry, or fold any laundry, and I have small children. So shut up.

I have, literally, fifteen (FIFTEEN! 15!) socks. Fifteen socks that don’t match each other. Fifteen lonely, single, socks. I can’t match different color socks together. Can’t do it. Too OCD. So, I just end up with a pile of socks that I can’t match, or put away. They just sit there. Every time I do laundry I think, “this is it. This time I’m going to find the missing socks, and I can take at least one of these mismatched lonely socks off of my dresser.” But, no. It doesn’t happen. Instead, with each new load of laundry, I find more mismatched lonely socks. More socks of various colors with no friends to be found. More socks of differing lengths, differing patterns, more socks without a twin. And my pile grows.

Today, looking at my huge pile of mismatched socks I wanted to yell, “where the hell are all my kids socks going?!” It’s a reasonable question. I put in two matching socks, why don’t I get out two matching socks? So, after I have sorted, carried, washed, dried, hauled and folded eight loads of laundry I am still left with a pile of clothing I can’t do anything with. A pile of clothing that just sits, and takes up space, and collects dust, and makes me want to scream in the worst way.

So, if you’ve made it this far, you’re now asking yourself why this is the thing I choose to freak out about. Why this little, pointless, all together minor problem is eroding my cool. The answer is, it’s just one more thing. It’s always one more.

Today after I have survived my three year old son asking me (for the 5th time in as many days) if I’m proud of him for pooping in his underwear. (The answer is always,”no,” by the way) After my one year old screaming for two hours straight. After finding clothes to put them in, finding food to feed them, (x2 x3) after cleaning them, carrying them, driving them, hauling them, chasing them, reasoning with them, stepping on toys, stepping over toys, and being screamed at for all my effort all day long, I can’t even finish folding the damn laundry because the socks have run away. Even the socks are copping an attitude.

Bastards