Don't Hurt the Socks Feelings!

When I was a child, I often assigned emotions to inanimate objects. For instance, my stuffed animals (and there were a lot) carried a multitude of emotions that led to imagined stories of plush toy kingdoms and teddy bear adventures. I cried with them when they were sad, and nurtured them when they were hurt. I cuddled them when they were scared, laughed when they were happy, and threw fantasy parties on imagined birthdays, which in teddy bear land arrived more than once a year.

But, the emotional attachment to inanimate objects went much farther than that. Example….passing through double doors at stores was a terrible conundrum for me. You see, it’s very difficult to walk through both doors. You have to pick one, but if you pick just one than the other one is left out. If I could pull it off without my parents invading my secret word, I would walk through one door, and then walk back through the other door, and then rewalk through the other door. That way, every door was used and therefore appreciated. More often, however, my parents did not indulge me, and I secretly whispered apologies to the unused door while being dragged away.

This avenue of my imagination came to a dead end during the preteen years, and was all but forgotten until I caught our son doing something……well, very imaginative.
Our son is a Thomas the Tank Engine fanatic. One could even say he is train obsessed as he (at 5) could guide you through any train museum and explain every engine top-to-bottom in the yard.

This past Christmas, I was thrilled to find Thomas the Tank Engine socks. The small treasure came in a set of two socks.

One pair of Thomas socks and one pair of Percy socks.

For some reason, I kept finding these socks mismatched in the dirty clothes. They were paired as follows:



After a few washings, I started thinking that maybe Bug is doing this on purpose, so I asked him.
“Mom” he said, “Thomas and Percy are friends. They will be sad if I separate them.”




Enter a flood of memories from my own childhood. Ahh, the apple does not fall far from the tree.

Now, I mismatch the socks on purpose. I mean, we wouldn’t want Thomas and Percy to be lonely inside the sock drawer. It gets so dark in there……..

Terror Behind the Screened Door

I love to write. The process of putting pen to paper to spill prose across the blank page creates an atmosphere in which my heart is as a bird escaping its cage and my imagination is set free to explore unlimited possibilities. These moments inspire me to live to the fullest and dream the unthinkable. However, as a stay at home mom of a two and four year old, these moments are few and far between.

Since returning from the Proverbs 31 conference, I have been unable to write three emails in a row let alone a paragraph, article, or even my writing assignment that is due in a week. Shrouded in conviction, desparation and exhaustion I sat down at the computer to hammer out at least a few sentences. Breathing deeply, I rested my hands on the keyboard begging inspiration to come to me. I started by replying to an email in which a (very good) friend was politely yelling at me for my lack of writing. In my first sentence, I defended myself. In the second, I made an excuse. In the third, I admitted she was right and was about too provide a list of items I was working on when, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. MOOOOOOMMMMMY!" screams the 4 year old.

"AHHHHH (breathe) AHHHHHH." echos the 2 year old.

And then, the four year old let out the highest pitch blood curtling scream I have ever heard in my life. It was the kind of scream that wins actresses leading roles in horror flicks.

My fingers hit ten different keys on the computer creating a word even babelfish.com wouldn't be able to make sense. I flew from my chair and ran down the stairs. I am not sure I touched each step during my descent but I am glad my hand was on the rail or I would have rolled down on my head instead of landing on two feet. It's a shame I worked out that day because I probably burned just as many calories on my mad dash towards the screams as I did on the treadmill.

During my flight down the second half of the stairs, I scanned the first floor for my children. I didn't see them and the screams continued to intesify. It's amazing what kind of horrible thoughts can fill your mind in a matter of seconds as I had visions of missing limbs, free flowing blood and a man with a chain saw chasing my children.

The back porch. That's where the screams were coming from. As their little voices crescendoed in terror, I added my screams to complete the chorus (mainly so my children would know that I was vicariously freaking out with them). I ran to the screened porch and came face to face with my kids, both of whom were locked outside on the patio. There they were. My two prescious children with their noses planted in the screen mesh of the door, trembling in fear.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Mooooommm, we, we, we (breathe) wanted to see the lizard." Offered my brave 4 year old.

"Okay, and?"

"The door shut and I can't open it."

It took five minutes of sitting on the couch, holding them both in my lap, to stop the onslaught of tears, shakes and sobs. The entire time of which I am trying not to laugh at the over-dramatization of Terror Behind the Screened Door.

After calming my children, I headed back upstairs to again sit at my computer. The moment of inspiration gone, I can't help but laugh at the irony of my situation. I love to write. I also love my children. Sometimes, the two do not mesh very well, and other times they do. But, the memories will last a lifetime.