The Last Sock

I just washed my last boy-sock.

It’s quite a bittersweet moment.  My youngest son, Monkey Boy, just turned 18.  He’s heading off for college this weekend.  And he’s taking his laundry with him.  The rule in our house is once you’re 18, Mom does not do your wash anymore.

There have been so many of these socks…sweaty, crusty, stinky things.  Full of holes.  Often mismatched.  Crumpled and inside out.  They’re everywhere–under beds, hiding behind the dryer, shoved to the back of the closet.  They are omnipresent.

While I really won’t miss the actual socks, I am sad to see them go.  My “baby” is grown and my role is changing.  I am no longer the one who does the wash, I just sit back and advise the laundering process.  “Mom, how much bleach should I add?  Do I wash the towels on hot or cold?”

I’m going to miss my socks.  Those two boys of mine were always underfoot, getting dirty, bruised, and loud.  They cluttered up my house.  They could often be found in strange places–under the bed, behind the dryer, up a tree, on the roof.  Bustling bundles of energy that have filled my life for the last 21 years.  They were omnipresent.

But you know what?  They’ve cleaned up nicely.  They’re washed and folded and ready to go out into life.  I don’t control their lives anymore…I’m just the advisor.  And I couldn’t be more proud of them.

I should probably send Monkey off with some quarters so he can wash his socks.