I knew that I wouldn't do it. I knew it would be a while until I wrote again. All the while that little devil on my shoulder has been saying,"Ha. You knew you wouldn't do this. Yet again, another unfinished venture." Well, if just to shut the devil up, I'm writing.

Socks. Can I just say that I hate them? If I could invent a shoe that would never rub your feet the wrong way, or never get that cheesy smell that could be used as a dirty bomb....I would do away with socks before you could say, "Sock holes."
I pick up socks all day long! I swear they wear more than one pair every day. The socks are everywhere and always in varying states of disrepair; mismatched, holes, stained, crusty and usually at least one pair that's become wet for whatever reason (75% of the time from Nathanael James forgetting to push his pee-pee down and hitting his socks while he's sitting on the toilet.)
Then, after washing, they're even less pleasing to me. I think terrorists should be tortured by putting them in a huge roomful of unmatched socks and telling them, "Spill the beans or you're in here until they're all matched." The task drives me bonkers. And every time I'm doing socks, I'm saying in my brain, "I hate socks. I hate socks." I've thought of so many strategies. I've tried giving each boy their own color. Besides green, blue and red, what other color of sock will a boy's athletic sock be? Not enough color choices for more than three boys. I've tried different styles for each boy. Inevitably ,they will switch socks and all of a sudden one doesn't want that style anymore. No matter what I choose, there's always five or six unmatched socks left over. It's a proverbial dilemma, I know, but I think the reason I can't stand it so much is because it reminds me of what so much of my job is: daily, mindless tasks that are often unsavory and mostly unnerving.
But then, in the middle of my sock-rage, God usually sends me the message in some way--maybe through hearing a belly laugh from a cute three-year-old; or seeing my ten-year-old, David, throw a pretty football pass; or hearing my fourteen-year-old Matthew say, "Wow, Mom. How much laundry do you do every day? You work a lot of hours." (Ahhhh.....the rare, priceless veiled compliment from a teenage boy!) The message that one day, when I'm sitting alone in a quiet, clean house, folding the extra-small load of yesterday's clothes, I'll be nostalgic for a basketful of mismatched socks.
Someday, I'll write on my other favorite subject in a testoster-home -- toilets.