Futility

For weeks now, possibly months, Porter has been coming downstairs in the mornings, wearing white athletic socks.  Without exception they have been threadbare, black on the bottom, and containing at least one toe exposing hole.  I ask him if those were the best he could do, and he looks at me like it's my fault.  Then when it came time for skiing, he would come down with this pair of Smart Wool socks he has seriously had since he was 4, also containing a hole, and moan about how those were the only ones he could find.  And I kept washing all of those dang socks and throwing them back in his drawer.  And I kept hoping he didn't have to take his shoes off at school, because it's kind of embarrassing.

Finally, today, I was at Costco, and I remembered.  And found just what we needed.  A 10-pack of boys white athletic socks for eight dollars.  They were beautiful and unsullied, and Molly happily helped me to match them up.  We took them up to Porter's room, with plans to throw out all the gross socks, and I thought about how he would be happy to see this development.

And to my slight shock, I found no less than twelve pairs of perfectly good, clean, non-holey socks.  Some of which looked as if they might never have been worn.  And five, FIVE pairs of expensive skiing socks, one of which I know has never been worn.  I only found four pairs of yucky socks to throw out.  And it's not like they were all hiding somewhere or unmatched or invisible or something.  They were all right there, in the drawer.  And I've been washing those four pairs of awful socks forever. 

Kids.  That is all.

And just for fun, here is Molly after we took out her Mexican corn rows: