One dirty sock and one frustrated mom.

Son: “Mom, I got my breakfast on my sock.”

Me (upstairs, brushing my hair) : If your sock’s dirty, take it off.”

Son: “Take it off?”

Me: “If it’s dirty, take your sock off.”

Son: “My sock?”

Me: “Yes! If your sock is dirty, take it off and bring it up here. Put it in the dirty clothes basket.”

Son: “Take my sock off?”

Me: “YES! Take your sock off and put it in the dirty clothes! Then go get yourself a clean pair of socks!”

Son: “I spilled my breakfast on my sock. I need to take it off.”

Me: “YES!!! Take off the sock! Now!”

And while I was practically foaming at the mouth with anger and frustration over the whole take-off-your-SOCK(!) thing, he calmly came upstairs with the dirty sock in his hand and went to get a change of socks. By this time I had abandoned the whole trying-to-look-like-I-at-least-tried-to-fix-my-hair thing and was on my way downstairs to see what in the world had happened to his sock. He walked past me nonchalantly, and then said over his shoulder, “Mom, I took off my sock because it was dirty. And I got a new sock.”

I wonder if he possesses some sort of genetic mutaion that prevents him from hearing my voice. I’m thinking that this may be the case, because his father (love you, honey!) has a mild form of this and hardly ever hears my voice.

My daughter, on the other hand, hears my voice every single time, and can do a so-real-it’s-scary imitation of what I sound like (complete with nagging tone and hands on hips stance.)

She’ll make such a good mother one day.

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