The Sock

It's official; he's gone. It wasn't until he came home and took his Christmas stocking that it finally sunk in. Why would this be the act that finally set my heart to wobbling? It seems that it's about socks. My first real sewing project as a mother was that Christmas stocking made 22 years ago. It looks 22 years older, but still has the charm of it's youth (much like it's maker-LOL) I still laugh at the way the teacher of the class looked at me when I asked her to thread my borrowed sewing machine. She said in wonder, "you don't know how to thread a machine?" to which I responded, "It's not mine." That only satisfied a small percentage of her confused look. Somehow I finished sewing that stocking and felt such pride in my creation. I even borrowed and copied the pattern to make more wonderful creations, which I never did do. But over the years I managed to make a couple more stockings but none with the flair of that first one.

How could Tony now march into the house and take it from it's sacred spot on the mantle; leaving a big hole in our magical picture perfect fireplace mantle? It just doesn't make sense. Didn't he know what it would do to me? His lame excuse was, "Stephanie has hers and I need mine so we can have our first Christmas together." And I'm supposed to believe that?

I have been reeling ever since and thought up a few good reasons he should leave it here.

1. Don't you want me to fill you a stocking here too?

2. I didn't take a Christmas stocking from my parent's house when I got married.

3. Don't you want to start things off new and fresh and get each other matching stockings?

But, unfortunately, none of these ideas came to my head before he was out the door with the precious cargo.

And now he has it and possession is 9/10's of the law. Can I claim that since I made it that it really belongs to me?

But, as I sat contemplating the whole affair till late in the night (it kept me up at night, just like he used to. Does he know he's doing it again?) I thought about another sock that set my heart wobbling. It was nearly 5 years ago. Tony had packed up all his possessions and left on a mission. I had helped him get his things put away so that another sibling could use his room in his absence. I thought we had gotten everything. But, with no warning, as I was doing the laundry a few days later, there it was. Tony's sock. It was just one white sock, but it was all it took to start me crying. I had been so brave at the MTC as we dropped him off (okay, there were tears) but I thought I handled it all pretty well; that is, until I found the sock. Luckily I had a fresh basket of clean laundry on top of the dryer in which to put my face as I cried. For some unknown reason, having a piece of his laundry there to remind me of him was enough to make me lose my composure and let all the bottled up feelings come out. I had a hard time going near the laundry area for days after that.

If it were just the two socks, that might be manageable, but just a few days ago as I unpacked yet another box from the move, I found something that I wasn't sure about. As I looked closer there was a little baby boy sock. The kind they only wear for the first month of their life. Is there a conspiracy to drive this poor mother over the brink? I sat looking at how tiny this little sock was and remembered how tiny the little foot was that went inside it. How could it now be a size 12 and be walking out of my house with a much larger stocking on the foot and in his hand? This day was always supposed to be in the future somewhere. It's never supposed to actually arrive. But arrive it has and I only have one warning for you young mothers.

Watch out for those socks!