So I'm looking everywhere for the laundry basket, the one I use to haul laundry up the stairs from the basement utility room so that I can fold what came out of the dryer. I finally find it, stashed behind a living room chair, and I realize why it's been stashed there. It is more than half full of socks.
I hate folding socks. I usually wait until the entire week's worth of laundry is done before I'll even touch them. And I won't fold them all, either. I make the kids help. And Hubby, of course.
It's called the Great Sock Divide. Kind of like the Continental Divide in that we are looking at some mountains, albeit mountains of socks. I go through the entire basket, dividing the socks into each of their own mountains. The Tater's socks. The Stinky Boy's socks. The Perfect Child's socks. Hubby's socks. My socks.
No great surprise to find that Hubby's mountain of socks is taller than all the rest. He wears two pairs of socks at a time, not because he wears steel-toed boots or works in construction, but because he's one of those "cold people" who no matter how warm the house is or how warm the day, he's freezing. And about half-way through the day, he gets hot, takes them off, then the sun goes down, it cools off, he puts on two more pair of socks. So in any given week I can be looking at 28 or more pair of socks for him. And to add to that mess is the fact that he has about 10 different types of socks. White with ribbing, white with grey toes and heels, white with smooth tops. Brown fuzzy, black fuzzy, brown trouser, black ribbed crews, black insulated feet, green insulated feet, and four shades of wools. Ugh.
The Tater's socks are easy. They are never just white, they are wonderful bright colors like green and purple and red and are easy to match, fold into a ball, and be done with it. Mine are easy too, because I only have one kind of sock, Hanes Her Way, with pink striped toes, and they don't require extensive matching. Just pick out two and fold them into a ball. The Stinky Boy's socks are all a disturbing shade of gray, footie-style with no tops (ew). The Perfect Child's socks, well, I make her fold her own since they come in every color, every possible combination (including toe socks) and some have tops and some don't. She also seems to have a knack for wearing more than one pair at a time.
When it's time for the Great Sock Divide, everyone is called to the living room to take care of their own mountain of socks. All but the Tater, I fold hers for her. For her part, she folds washrags into fours for me. Sweet thing. Wait until she realizes laundry is actually WORK and not FUN.
So, for another week, I don't have to think about socks. What a relief!