There really is a monster eating all the socks. Or an elf who sneaks them away to put them on

AS my family’s wardrobe demands are increasing, I’m learning a lot. Such as the rule that nothing you buy in advance will ever fit, so there’s no use, even if it’s Buy 1, Get 50% off the other. (That equals only 25% off, by the way. Sales are sneaky like that.) Also, the year we buy headbands, everyone’s wearing bows. And the year we buy bows, everyone’s wearing sweatbands.

I’m also learning things about sock. No, not socks. Just sock.

The first thing I learned is that there really is a sock monster. Or elf. No, really.

Soon after my husband and I were married (so soon that my parents still footed the bill), a repairman came to inspect our dryer, which wasn’t closing properly. After he corrected the issue, the repairman showed us (because husbands still show interest in dryers during the first month of marriage) that little space that houses the rubber that goes all around the opening of the dryer.

“See this gap?” he said with a kindly smile. “Here’s where all the tiny little socks disappear.”

My husband and I gave a small giggle. Little socks? How sweet a thought! We were still trying to figure out how to close the dryer properly.

But it was a helpful tip, so I filed it away for future reference.

Some years passed, and I graduated to managing more than just the dryer door. One day, I was sitting in a circle of homemakers when I first heard women bemoaning the widows in the laundry basket. I allowed myself a little smirk.

Not me, I thought. Because if you think about it, where can the socks go? Drawer, feet, hamper, machine, dryer, basket, drawer. I mean, there’s a simple science to this circle. How would they disappear? Besides, the repairman had told me about that rubber piece.

But then I learned that there really is a monster eating all the socks. Or an elf who sneaks them away to put them on. (Makes more sense, in my book. Who’d want to eat stinky socks?) So this elf, with dozens and dozens of socks on his little feet, waddles from house to house to sneak away a sock or two. And if it’s two, it’s never, ever a pair. That’s against elfin rules.

Now I have a selection of single socks that wallow at the bottom of the laundry basket. I always hope their matches will reappear the same way they left, but another elfin rule is that it’s a one-way street. There’s no coming back. So, every time I finish folding a load and the floor of the basket reappears, my heart sinks all over again.

If I could call the repairman back, it would be to tell him that socks that vanish never reappear in the gasket. That’s too obvious. Monsters and elves like their little jokes.

Another thing I’ve learned is the physics of things tearing: Girls’ robes tear faster than pants. Expensive pants tear faster than cheap pants. Cheap pants tear faster than cheap pants with reinforced knees (that’s why I have pants on subscription).

I’ve also become an expert on pants in general, but this requires two shots of caffeine to get through. (Girls’ clothes require seven. There’s a reason I’m not going there.)

One fine pre-season day, the phone rings. It’s my sister, perfectly bewildered.

“H&M has two kinds of twill pants, what’s up?” she says. “There’s the twill, twill one, and the twill cotton one!” Betrayal, I know. “Any clue?”

The issue is that I have an answer, which means I’m feeding the cat. She’ll be back for more, and I am so tired of talking about pants.

“The twill cotton one is really nice,” I say. “I have a couple hundred of them. They’re deeper blue.”

“Ah, I thought so!”

“There’s also no zipper and snap. Only a button. Make sure your son is okay with that.”

Nary a day passes, and the phone rings. Next sister.

“You ever bought Children’s Place pants? They’re supposed to be really great; they just don’t tear!”

Hmmm… “I bought the regular one in slim. No, not the slim one. The regular one. Just slim fit for narrow boys.”

But the pants don’t fit in the end, so she buys the slim, regular. No, not regular, slim. SLIM, REGULAR. With stretch. Yes, that one.

Thing is, by the time we’re all figured out, the kids have stretched by a half foot each. You know what that means, right?

It’s time for new pants. Twill, twill this time.

And maybe I’ll buy a few more pairs of socks while I’m shopping.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 815)