This one toddler sock; he was a real jerk

Setting:  

Our first home. One morning when I had an office job. Approximately 6:54 a.m.

If it weren’t for all the stairs in our house, I would have loved roller skates. Just think, some women get ready for the day in house slippers!

Amateurs.

Back then, the days when I hit the ground running, I wasn’t fast enough.

I remember dousing one fire after another--from locating run-free pantyhose to finding something possibly passing as a “healthy” kid snack to wondering if I bought sandwich baggies to considering where I might have put those sandwich baggies.

If my hair didn’t dry in time, I cut off the wet parts. Seriously.

This particular frantic morning, though, will forever be etched into my memory.

‘Twas the day of IT. 

It seemed that morning’s previous conquers were for naught: the pantyhose victory, the snack defeat and the baggie triumphs—they were mere practice battles intended to groom me for the FINAL CHALLENGE of which I was no contender.

What was this FINAL CHALLENGE?

A missing toddler sock.

Mousers are overrated. Kitty Baby catches toddler socks.

“So this is how I meet my end,” I surrendered, kneeling, my arm returning from underneath the couch, “death by elusive toddler sock.”

This may sound exaggerated or dramatized. But let me tell you, in the heat of the morning rush, there is no joy. No merriment.

There is but drama. 

That toddler sock was no small thing.

Not finding that toddler sock in time = getting to work late = the boss’ wrath.

The day’s entire tone rested on that one toddler sock.

Jerk.

 

Shared on this neighborly site:

Tales from Trish