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A Mile in Someone Else’s Socks

So it’s Sunday morning. The Boy and Girl are getting ready for church. It’s their big spring musical performance. The Boy is in the choir. The Girl will be doing a flag routine. We are, as always, rushing around to get ready.

The Boy is in costume, all except for the white socks he is supposed to be wearing. We are past our departure time. We are at a moment of crisis.

Send the Boy back upstairs to unearth a pair of white socks from his room? His room that has a basketball hoop? His basketball hoop that is set at dunking height? No, I can’t do that. A full-fledged game will break out. The only socks on his mind would be those he wears with his basketball uniform.

We are already late. No way is he going upstairs. And I’m too lazy.

Quickly I grab my white, no-show socks. Off the kitchen floor, of course. The exact spot I had deposited them the night before. The night after a fourteen hour day sightseeing in New York City with my sister and two cousins.

I toss them to the Boy. He pulls them on his feet, grabs his shoes and hurries out the door to his awaiting audience. Not one complaint.

Out of the hundreds of people who will see him on stage, only he and I will know the miles those socks have traveled. And most certainly I will be the only mom whose Boy is wearing her socks.

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