This morning for my run, I wore yellow fuzzy socks with lady bugs on them.
I knew it was probably a mistake as I put them on and felt the seams along the toes, but my drawer was empty of athletic socks.
I had only walked out the back door and taken time to locate a quarter moon, shaped like the one that is always used to illustrate "the cow jumped over the moon" and a single star/planet shining in the 5 a.m. sky, when the seam on the sock started to rub.
I sat down on the hammock, took off my shoes and turned the socks inside out before putting my shoes on again. Then I went for a run and figured I'd just live with the socks.
Obvioiusly, they aren't running socks. Apparently athletic socks are at a premium in my house.
Just last week I caught Tucker, size 12 men's shoe, wearing my running socks, size extra small womens. They were running footies with pink at the heel but he had stretched them over his giant feet. The day before he'd had on my Thorlo socks, which are padded at the heels and balls of the feet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I needed some socks," he shrugged.
He claims they were laying on the dryer, which is where we pile the boys' clean clothes for them to put away.
I either need to step up the laundry or find a boy who won't wear pink-trimmed socks.
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