A Story About a Boy and a Sock and a Parent Fail

Tonight I ran to the grocery, leaving my husband at home with the kiddos. I returned, announcing as I walked in that I had presents for everyone.

I grabbed a pack of beer for my husband. My daughter received a little plastic St. Patrick’s Day necklace I saw in the checkout line. My son got a few new sippy cups, suitable for his “big boy” status now that he’s one.

(My present was Puffs. Being the mom is exciting.)

Anyway, my husband was looking at his beer and my daughter was putting on her necklace when I noticed that our son was no longer playing in the family room as he’d been when I walked in.

I could see that the gate blocking the stairs was up, so that was a relief.

I checked to make sure he wasn’t on our brick fireplace step. Not there. Good.

I headed down the hallway. The bathroom door was open, which is unusual.

And sure enough, there he was.

Standing.

Next to the toilet.

With his hands in it.

Splashing around.

And dunking his socks in the water.

I screamed, tossed him up to my chest and immediately started scrubbing his hands in the sink while screeching at my husband to get the sock out. He reached in and picked it up as easily as one might pluck a flower from a garden. This made me shriek even more.

My husband kept insisting that it wasn’t a big deal because the water was “clean.” My counterargument is that “nothing in a toilet is ever truly clean.” This may be some of my germaphobia rising to the surface but I just don’t care.

My son has now been bathed, and so I will be ready to kiss his sweet little hands again in just 12 more baths. We’ve reminded our daughter to always close the toilet lid and the bathroom door for her brother’s safety. My husband is still insisting that everything is fine and clean and that we shouldn’t throw out that sock. And I have now written about the event in hopes of processing, experiencing catharsis, and never again thinking about it.

The end.