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It was only two days ago that I emphatically stated that Goofus McDoofus and Doofus McGoofus could not under any circumstance be paired for chores. So, today I paired them to match the big basket of socks. I don't do socks. Windows are cool with me. Socks? No dice.


We have communal socks and a communal sock basket. Because I hate the sock/shoe chaos when we're trying to go anywhere, I have a system set up to solve the missing shoe/no sock conundrum. And it's a good system. When it gets used. By the front door is a bench with a crate full of theoretically matched socks and a crate of random shoes.


All the sock-matchers need to do is theoretically match the socks and toss them in the crate. As you can see, I'm not even asking for genuine matching. Just close enough so that nobody points and laughs. Seems to me to be the perfect job for a couple of boys watching TV. Little did I know how dangerous sock matching could be.

Two weeks ago while the boys were theoretically matching socks, there was a sudden crash and Oliver's wails of pain.  He came running to me, his mouth gushing blood from where he had put his tooth through his bottom lip. (I gotta tell you, this is actually pretty routine. I can't count the number of times this boy has bit through his lip, but I know he has bit all the way through his tongue, twice.) While rinsing out his mouth, I asked him, "What were you doing? How did this happen?"

He answered, and I kid you not, "I was matching socks."

I asked The Other Brother and he stuck to the story, "I don't know what happened. We were matching socks."


Now, I had been doing laundry all weekend, so when The Brothers came inside yesterday and sat down in front of the TV, I plopped the big basket of socks down in front of them. The 8 yr old told me if he has to theoretically match socks again, he's running away. I told him his feet were going to get cold. I enlisted the two year old to help too, because it's theoretical sock matching not rocket science for the love of pete. As to be predicted, the TV proved too distracting so I sent them up to their room to do it.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked up the steps to find Oliver making sock angels on his bedroom floor.


After some calm, rational redirecting on my part, *cough* they were back at it. Fifteen minutes later, the 2 yr old came to me crying with a bloody nose. It turned out to be no big deal and she stopped crying within a few minutes of cuddling.

When I asked her what had happened, you guessed it. She was "doing socks."

(This time the boys came clean and told me she was leaning over the edge of the laundry basket and it tipped, popping her in the nose. but seriously?!) I'm waiting for them to get OSHA in here, or possibly unionize.

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