The doorbell rings and I bounce down the stairs to receive an order. Relief washes over me as I tear open the brown packaging and the new socks fall out. This is more than a delivery of socks.
In my household, with a mix of autism and ADHD, socks are meaningful. We can be forgetful and disorganized, but also hyper-focused and incredibly productive. Thinking in this house can be literal, linear and precise; and, on the other hand, spontaneously energetic and free. None of us want to commit to something that seems boring, and socks really are boring.
Socks are also sensory and a signal that change is coming. Socks can mean getting dressed, leaving the house, or worse, going to school. Socks can be too warm, too cold, too fluffy or too thin. They can be scratchy or itchy. The seams and cuffs are a serious problem. Baggy is so frustrating and too tight is impossible. Socks can feel wrong for no reason.
Some socks are discarded, discarded and misplaced. Loose socks turn up in the fruit bowl, in a handbag, under the trampoline or in the car. We discover a small sock in a box that has been missing for seven years. I’m the self-appointed sock manager of this house and it’s taking its toll.
I’ve simplified my own sock strategy over time. For me it is always black so I can easily lose and replace a sock. “I never know where my socks are,” my son shouts almost every day. At least once a month my husband asks, “Why do we have this basket full of strange socks?” “Because we are who we are,” I answer without hesitation.
I catch my daughter at the door leaving the house in mismatched neon socks. “No one cares about socks, Mom,” she says. I call after her as she disappears around the corner: “Please wear the black socks to school, that’s what ‘normal’ people do.”