Socks are the bane of my existence.
Not my own. Not Vern's. I mean little, disparate, smelly, mischievous munchkin socks.
I picked up 21 socks from my downstairs tonight: 17 icky, dirty ones and two clean pair. They were everywhere . . . under furniture, behind things, mixed into the toys, under the kitchen table . . . and this is during sandal season, when I try to keep the kids out of socks as much as possible.
At least there weren't any in the piano.
Hopefully the slight, but persistent, smell I've been chasing today is now banished. Ugh. Maybe there's a reason I haven't knit socks for the kids that are big enough to remove their own footwear.
I think it's time I go and do some reading on the barefoot movement.