I had to stick my hand in a sock today. Not once, but twice. I had to close my eyes and breathe slowly, while conjuring up images of pretty flowers and butterflies. Until my teeth started to hurt. Ache. Just plain drive me crazy. But I wasn’t going to let my kids down. A mother should be able to sew buttons on a sock puppet, right?
Uhhh….I need a break from socks, before I continue. (pause)
You see, before my children were brought into this world…I had two stubborn ideals. I would not allow peanut butter in MY house (a culinary decision I made at age 5). I would not touch socks.
Enter kiddos. We went from bananas (w/Oscar), to pickles and ham (w/Cooper), to “oops, I dropped the bread…but I know you won’t care when you taste this peanut butter and yummy JELLY” (welcome Zoey). Reality. I serve up those pb & j sandwiches without the crust (hey, I get it). I just try hard not to get it on my fingers. UGH.
Today, I pair socks, although I refuse to turn them inside out. Everyone has gotten used to it. My wonderful husband doesn’t say a thing about it. I’m glad. I feel like enough of a freak about it. I never used to have this trouble. Back in the 90’s, a bad wisdom teeth removal led to cotton stuff in my mouth and….gag. Can’t finish the story.
So I feel pretty successful about sticking my hand in a sock today. Okay, my kids kept asking what was wrong with me while my wobbly knees kicked in and I clung to the kitchen counter. Yet, I did it. Therapy at its best.