Where All the Baby Socks Go

I'm not sure where to begin. There's that old adage to begin at the beginning:

For me, it happened back in 1989, when my college graduation trip fund became my washer & dryer fund. The generous gift from my maternal grandparents was now to be transformed into something exceedingly practical. I say exceedingly as I'd had no desire to be practical at 22 years of age. I'd long dreamt of the trip I'd make to Europe, what I'd do differently from my sister who'd graduated, received the gift, and gone off to Europe with a group wrangled by Mrs. Ruth Gay, (whom we appropriately called Ruthless Gay), God rest her soul. 

I'd do it differently, I was certain; I'd run off from the trip leader for more than just one afternoon. It was quite the daydream, as here I was already married and graduating from college. The reality of life and marriage to someone parading around as a nice guy had come to roost, and I felt the lifeblood slowing in my arteries even as I felt my first child beginning to gain substance in my belly. Running off to Europe no longer a possibility, I slapped all my trip fund into the hands of the Whirlpool man and made room for two shiny white machines that somehow managed to fit in my tiny apartment kitchen. I'd need, them, I thought, what with all those baby socks and onesies. 

That's where the mystery began. Only a few months later as Baby Kelli made her appearance did I begin to sprinkle my conversation with the phrase, "...where all the baby socks go."  For those of you who for whatever reason do not have children of your own and have never baby-sat a small child overnight, I'll fill you in on something: Tiny socks disappear. They vanish, inexplicably, into the universe. Statistically, new moms spend at least an hour a week searching for vanished baby socks with no satisfaction. 

I developed the theory then that my new Whirlpool washer and dryer had swallowed them. Now, at this point, I've had a few repairs done on each machine. And I assure you, I've leaned over the shoulder of the Whirlpool repairman (yes, he does exist), breathing down his neck but no baby socks have ever been discovered in the belly of either one. My updated theory? One of these machines is a portal. A portal into the universe. A portal to all things inexplicable. A portal to mystery, to life's deepest, darkest secrets, and to mountains and mountains of lost socks.

Fast forward twenty years. Baby Kelli will reach her landmark birthday in November, and has just driven herself to college for the first time. She's in her third year, but never before has she loaded up her own car with her worldly goods, hopped in behind the wheel and taken off. {Sniffle, sniffle}. And here the magic begins. 

I'm packing my bags for a road trip next weekend. I've patiently waited for all loads of laundry to be clean and dry to complete my weekend wardrobe which, for the most part, is casual. I plan to wear tennis shoes or hikers. With socks. I find only a singleton in my drawer which had held the three old and three brand new pairs of the cushioned wicking ones I'm so fond of I head to the dryer where I assume I'll find the dregs of the white load still resting deep within, amidst two or three well-worn dryer sheets. Enter Katherine, my 14-year old. She's getting ready for her first day of eighth grade: "Mom!!! I have no socks!!!"

You can only imagine the expletives aimed at the universe. The dryer. The black hole. And then the realization. It was, indeed, human hands that removed all those socks from our home. The same hands that once were so tiny, clapping as baby Kelli sat on top of the rumbling dryer in our old apartment kitchen had pilfered our sock collections directly from the wash. What now?

Aside from a trip to Target for new stock, I've only to reassess my theory. The one I've held so dear to my heart since 1989. No longer can I answer anyone's plea, "Where did _X_ go?" with my favorite phrase, "It went where all the baby socks go." For me, the answer must be this simple credo: Kelli ate them. Now I know. No more mystery, no more black hole theory, nor more speculation or intrigue. Everyone else will simply have to find their own answer to the universe. 

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It's Real Simple: Growing Up

"But, why do I have to grow up?"
I still reflect on that bittersweet moment long ago . I sat on my father's lap as he sat on the dark vinyl Danish modern recliner in our living room on Sheri Drive.
"But I don't want to!"was my protest, so often repeated in the most difficult moments of my life.

What I hadn't latched onto then but would some 35 years later, is that I wouldn't have to go this road alone. Adulthood, I had suspected, required a great and glamorous solo flight, the sort that would wow the world as they watched my wings spread within my own sinewy strength. Growing up, I now understand, is a weaving together of those elements of experiences and people in life that bind us in commonality rather than exclusivity. It takes a village to raise a child, and certainly a village to launch an adult. And for that I'm grateful. Share

The Washington Post: My First Published Clip

Now, why didn't I think of this before?

I wandered around in a general delirium for weeks, silly-headed over the fact that I have finally been published, and did not think to take advantage of my own platform here to broadcast the exciting news.
What could be more exciting to a writer than her first publsihed clip? I can think of two things right off the bat:
1. The paycheck (that is still sitting, untarnished, on my dining room table)
2. I was invited to write the piece

Hallelujah! I'M IN PRINT! And on the internet! And no one has taken my piece off the internet- which is even more life-confirming. Here it is, the little piece:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/06/02/AR2009060200833.html

Hope you enjoyed it, brief as it was. I will be submitting a longer piece to a magazine this month. Wish me success! Share

Fly Casting, Lesson 1

Fly casting: verb. Different from fly fishing, as one only does that when one actually catches something other than grass, trees, shrubbery or the skin of a nearby friend. The motion one achieves in the hopes of catching a fish and just plain enjoying oneself.

The day is hot and sultry, in expectation of the afternoon storm that never congealed. Tall marshmallow puffs of chalky white clouds form overhead as we stand on the banks of Percy Priest Lake, me with a fly rod in hand for the first time. Gnats, (aka jetskis) writing out a script on the water, are making waves just for us that lap lap on the rocks at our feet. I am here to learn, not so much to catch my dinner. In actuality, a fish does make a fair attempt to go home with me; the mysterious black-brown shape-shifter darting in and out of the smooth large rocks just a yard away from my feet. But no fish on the line means I am merely fly-casting and not fly-fishing. I'm alright with that. After all, it's early yet.

My instructor, or rather coach, kindly guides me through the motions...gentle subtle moves of the forearm and shoulder that belie the supposed complexity of fly fishing. It all started on the dance floor...or during discussion thereof, when he decided I'd be good at fly fishing because of my inherent sense of rhythm. When one dances well, one surely can fly cast. Much in the same way that one who has a musical ear is also proficient with foreign language learning. The music and rhythm are embedded first in the soul and can then be transcribed to many forms of physical activity and acuity.

My arm moves like a windshield wiper from 10:00 to 1:00. Positionally, that is, and not in terms of time. Imagine a clock face suspended over and perpendicular to my right shoulder in this blue late summer sky; I want to wave my fly rod back and forth between 10 and 1 when "false casting" to let out the excess yellow line and cast farther out beyond that rock. Delicious.... we talk of lemon meringue pie and I watch the lemon yellow line floating overhead back and forth...moving my arm carefully as I would spread the pillows of meringue over the tart lemon pie filling; there is pressure, but not too much; there is arm motion, but no wrist-flicking; there is power but not forcefulness. Subtletyis engaged.

My coach is enjoying this too much, reaching his arms around me to demonstrate, hands over mine, just the right tension and motion of my arms. Soon I'm standing alone, swimsuit-and-shorts-clad, waving my magic wand overhead with "tight loop" of line dancing overhead, flashing in the sunlight, teasing the fish out to play. And I can't wait for next time. Share