Socks

I looked down at my feet tonight and saw sock that weren’t my own.

Just plain white socks.

I squinched my face and tried to remember where I had snagged them from.

A drawer?

A laundry basket?

The counter by the shoes, I think?

My feet were cold. My feet are always cold. And I went for the first pair I could find.

I squinched my face again peering at these white socks realizing they weren’t mine, but they also weren’t my husband’s.

Odd, I thought.

And then…my heart fell into my stomach, my eyes grew wide, and my mind began to race.

These are my son’s socks.

I’m wearing my son’s socks.

My son has feet big enough to wear sock that would fit my feet.

My son that is six. He’s SIX. He’s not seven for two more weeks.

How can my baby boy possibly have feet that would wear socks that would even come close to fitting my feet?

I’m wearing my son’s socks. And they fit.

And I mourn. And I celebrate. And I mourn.

Just plain white socks.

My guy

13 thoughts on “Socks

  1. Nan Fusco

    first, love your blog…

    second, before you know it your son will utter a casual “hi mom” and you’ll say, “yikes, whose ‘man voice’ is that??” cherish every moment… it goes by soooo fast.

  2. WarsawMommy

    That’s parenthood, isn’t it? That dance of celebrating and mourning; of loving the people they’re becoming and missing the babies that they were.

    Sigh.

  3. William

    When I fold the laundry I sometimes confuse my wifes socks with my 6 year olds.

    My wife has a thing for Iron Man and Ben 10.

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