Losing Socks and S**t
I am staring at a pile of socks. My blood begins to boil because I thought I had recovered. I thought that I didn't care that our socks don't match. They will never ever match. I have tried everything to rid myself of the desire to have the socks in our home to match. I myself have (mostly) matching socks and Big Man must have matching socks for work. His sense of humor shows through on his socks. Screaming T Rex's, guitars, and or waddling penguins accompany his conservative suits, but penguins do not walk next to the dinosaurs. Funny would become weird and so his socks match and we have worked hard to make it so.
But kids don't care if their socks match and so I don't care.
Except I really do.
I am looking at this pile of socks and I don't know where their mates are, and I don't even recognize some of these socks as belonging to my family. I know I've seen singular socks on the floor of a car, wedged into the recliner, resting on some lawn toys in the yard, in the barn, and one scrunched into lunchbox I'd cleaned out after day camp. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENS. But it does. And then, because of lost socks, I start to lose my shit.
I really know it is not worth losing my shit over mismatched socks. There are bigger fish to fry, more pressing needs, but it can sometimes feel that so little in my life matches up nicely that a simple pairing of the socks would just soothe my weary soul. Except that it doesn't because it can't. We are a family who cannot keep socks in pairs.
I have tried only buying one kind for each kid. But then grandma decides they need socks and they are a different kind. Or the kid who only wears white suddenly wants to wear black. Low socks are out and high socks are in, or these socks make his feet sweat, and these socks have a weird bump and she won't wear them. Oh, and kid's feet? They grow. Quickly. What fit yesterday may not fit today and tomorrow is totally a crap shoot.
Summer is a blissful reprieve since Thing I lives in flip-flops and Thing 2 won't wear shoes. Mostly this will mean he won't wear socks and this makes me soooooo happy because I don't have to wash them or dry them or feel utter failure in trying to pair them since they won't match up anyway.
I try not to lose any sleep over this. In fact, I never used to sleep over much. Until I had kids and I had to start managing their shit.
When they are babies, it is one big shit-managing factory. Then they start to move and you are chasing their shit. Then they are using the potty and you are just praying the shit lands in the right place or near the right place. And might I define 'right'? Is that a toilet? Or outdoors? Near a tree? Or out in open? You start pondering questions about shit you never once considered. But finally their shit is contained. Or at least properly managed. Then they start having opinions about their shit and overnight it seems you have lost control. In my case, I start to not only lose my shit but theirs as well. All of this makes me so tired yet I can't possibly think of losing sleep too.
But I do. Sometimes I get into bed and my body is screaming for sleep and my mind just won't shut down. I toss and turn. I will myself to breathe in and out slowly. I get quiet. I relax and two hours pass and I am....wide awake.
I start to troll my home like a stranger. I look at this and that as if I have never seen it before because maybe I haven't. Zombies who wander during the day don't really see and since I sometimes lose sleep, I am not always fully alert. These night time strolls give me a chance to examine my own shit. I study my cupboards and my linen closet. Who has one of these? It is fun to say linen closet like you are an adult, but mine is really just some shelves with random stuff shoved here and there. Oh yes! I see a balled up sheet. Ah, my linen closet. I am an adult. I allow myself to feel proud for three minutes before I consider the books I never get to. Rarely will I ever read good books in the middle of the night because I won't be able to stop which means I will never sleep. Just thinking about this as I look at the books starts to make me lose my shit again so I turn on the computer and go to annoying sites. I find myself on People.com. I am so riddled with shame to be reading about someone named Kim Kardashian when I could be reading The Inventions of Wings or The Goldfinch, and yet I am fascinated by the size of her butt. I think my butt is large but not nearly as fascinating but this must mean something good for women to have this brunette with a large ass taking up so much media space and then I lose more time and sleep and my shit wondering what I have done wrong when my butt is large and I am a brunette and yet I can't keep my shit together like she clearly does and could I have not been reading????
I bet she has help.
I have no help. I am not a good shit-manager because I lose my shit too much and so it is likely I would not be good with help or to help so it is best to tackle all of this alone. Private shit-losing just has to be better.
I mean, I can't even match socks. How could I handle help?
It seems like sock-matching should be such a soothing task. This goes with this. Problem. Solution.
But it never works that way. I want to sleep. Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can't. Kim has help. I need help, but I shouldn't get it because I would lost my shit like I lose my socks. And I don't want to lose my shit over socks that don't match. But still, I really want to match my socks.
Posted by Lisa Gray