I can pick out my own clothes. (pretty well, actually. Or so I assume. Not too many people laugh and point, so I figure I'm doing okay.)
Dressing the kids is relatively easy- they both pick out their own outfits, and R is at the stage where I can't even try to assist her, or there will be much tears and wailing...
But.... the socks. The socks are killing me.
Downstairs near the dryer sits a ten gallon wastebasket, filled with socks. Not a pair among them. There are striped socks and solid socks, in glorious disarray. A sock with fuzzy dogs. A tall grey one with soccer balls up the calf, little pink socks (four, none making a pair) and winnie-the-pooh toe socks, one green, one red-striped.
Where are all the matches to these socks?
My house is not always tidy, but it's ludicrious to think that somewhere there's another pile of socks, waiting to be found. I could accept the washing machine eating a couple, but that many? Without breaking?
They're not in the kids' rooms - I've looked. What's left - under the dryer? Is there a place socks go to die?
Someday, I'm going to throw away the entire bucket of socks - devil-may-care, and start fresh.
Except, of course, if I do that, all the missing socks will decide it's time to end their wandering ways and come home...
NaBloPoMo note: Thirty days hath November - and now, November's over. It was...interesting.