
In my house I am the Goddess of shoes. Bearer of canvas, Provider of lace, Locator of socks. (I also have a minor specialty in locating all lost items if I've been properly worshipped. Or if we're late.) Each morning I hear the cry, "Moooom where are my shoes?"
How often does it seem that when I find the poor child, he is circling not ten feet from one of his shoes, staring at the wall? And why is he wearing his father's socks? You'd think I am less pressured in the morning not having to get ready for work myself, but I race over to the shoe and toss them onto the couch saying "If it was a snake-arrggggg!"
I sound like my mother. No wait. My mother never said that, it would be my father I'm channeling this morning. I'd rather be channeling Martha Stewart because she probably never finds herself saying "Darling why is our son wearing your socks?" And all her family's shoes are in that cozy shelf you made per her instructions on TV. Because all good moms build shelves with painstakingly painted scrollwork for their children's shoes. (Whose bottoms are usually covered in something that makes rats afraid.)
"I couldn't find any of his so I gave him mine." Mark shrugs and heads to the kitchen to make Stephan's breakfast. I follow right on his heels. Okay I stop and search Stephan's room for socks. And proof of my female superiority. I find one and then dash to the clean laundry basket in search of another. The basket being in the garage, I pass by Mark on my way.
"But they don't fit him." Our morning conversations are like this, sporadic bursts in-between getting Stephan ready. As I lunge for the garage door I hear,
"They fit fine." Visions of Stephan circling the living room with his socks dragging behind him pop before my eyes. Maybe if he pulled them up to his knees?
"Mom do you know where my shoes are?" Stephan's head pops into the garage. I am tossing clothes out of a basket in search of a matching sock to the one clutched in my right hand. I find myself following the usual morning routine and asking the stupid question.
"Well where did you leave them?" Now that was my mother speaking. I am not digging fast enough so the clean sock goes in-between my teeth while my head lowers further into the wicker basket.
"I don't know. I checked my room and the living room." Precious minutes are passing by. The bus will be here, honking its horn any moment.
"Did you check under the couch?"
"What?"
Note to self, don't talk with socks in your teeth. I pull the sock out of my mouth and repeat my question while triumphantly pulling a matching sock from the bottom of the clean laundry basket. Martha would never have 3 baskets of clean laundry piled in the garage/laundry room. Or puddles of dirty ones by the machines. Why didn't I listen and build a shelving system for that?
Stephan wanders back in to check under the couch, I follow him announcing loudly, "Here is your socks sweetie." Mark barely looks up from pouring cereal. Stephan successfully finds one shoe and I ask him to sit down and put on the clean socks.
“But Mooom I have to find my shoe!”
“He’ll waste more time changing his socks.” Mark mutters. I ignore him and demand that Stephan change his socks. I may not have shelving units covered in dead flowers, but I was at least sending my son to school wearing his socks! Never mind that a few days before, when I had slept in, he got past me wearing the same outfit.
“I’ll find your shoe." I grumble, heading up the stairs to start with his room. Why one shoe would be in one room and the other someplace else is a phenomenon I have yet to figure out. Mark has this habit too and I often wonder if they do it for sport. Liven up the day by watching Mom hunt for shoes.
After a precursory glance over the room and a lift of his comforter, I am satisfied that the shoe is not in the bedroom. I check our room where the cable TV is. I hear Mark asking me to hurry as the bus could arrive any moment. Moving faster I look under our bed, in the two bathrooms upstairs and even peek in the nursery where Aidan and Abigail are sleeping. I thank God that they have not woken up with our shouting (Because in all two story homes you find yourself yelling downstairs whether you like it or not.)
I get myself back down stairs as fast as my body will let me, and begin searching the living room where shoe #1 was found. Kneeling on the floor I notice that it was not only a shoe being stored under the couch. Three of Aidan’s plastic toy balls, a rubber duck, and Mark’s socks. I try not to scream. I yank Mark’s socks out from under the couch and race to the garage door. Just as I toss the socks into the dirty pile I simultaneously see Stephan's second shoe and hear the bus.
Grabbing the shoe, I slide back across the garage, fling myself through the door and, stop Mark from putting Stephan in his own shoes. The last thing i need is him clomping about in huge shoes.
“Here it is!” I toss it up the stairs from our living room to the kitchen where Mark catches it and hands it to Stephan. “Why was one shoe in the garage and the other under the couch?” The two giggle. I’ve asked the “why” question. Mark teases me mercilessly about my habit of wandering about the house saying things like “why are there dirty dishes down here?” or“why was the door left open?” You get the picture. It's a mom curse.
Stephan shoves his shoes on, without untying the laces and heads off for the bus. I look at Mark. He heads off to take a shower. I go back up to our bedroom to rest a bit before one of the babies wakes up. I’m may not be Martha but I can find a pair of socks and shoes with a time limit! I’m not that bad of a mother after all. At least this time Stephan's clothes matched.
My eyes are closing; I’m curled under the sheets, and just as I begin to drift off to the sound of the shower, I hear :
“Hun, where is my towel?”