For the last several weeks, it has been hard catching my 11-year-old son Jacob in the act of leaving his socks in strange places around the house.  For whatever reason, he has embraced the hamper.  Good for him.  Good for our laundry.  Bad for my blog.  Bad for my series, “Where in the World are Jacob’s socks?”

Given this unanticipated state of tidiness, you can imagine my excitement, when yesterday, my wife said, “Hey, look at Ben’s socks.”  Yes, indeed.  There was a candidate for the blog, perched right on the table, my 6-year-old son Ben’s Superman socks.  Gleefully retrieving the camera, I took a photo of the misplaced hosiery.  Then much to my wonder, less than three feet (feet as an English standard of measurement, not human feet, which are usually covered with socks) away from Ben’s socks I spied below, resting peacefully on a chair, a pair of my socks (gasp!).  I don’t even remember the last time I wore these socks.  I certainly don’t recall jumping out of them and leaving them sitting behind on a chair.  Confusion accompanied by an odd sort of happiness.  Additional confirmation that the sock misplacement affliction is genetic.  If that is the case, the genes should provide me with plenty to write about for years to come.

Ah, that moment of pride, when I realize that my son is following in my footsteps or rather socks or something like that.

Preparing to write this evening’s post, I headed through the dining room and what did I see?  My 8-year-old son Sam’s socks resting quietly on the table.  It appears as if the socks are now taking turns.  They have rallied for the cause.  Socks of the world unite!  Down with the hamper!  Power to the feet!

Sam’s socks taking their turn at carrying on the family tradition.

Rest well.  The socks are in charge.