Buck pulls down the boxes of toasty winter clothes from the attic, and I wince. The boxes remind me that soon the conflict between Pooh Bear, and I will kick off. Pooh Bear hates socks and tights. Since April, she’s been free as a butterfly to bare her feet, but with the cold nip in the air comes cold toes. We’ve already worked our way through the introductory September Soccer Sock battle in which she her involvement on the team precariously hangs in the balance contingent upon her cooperation and self control whilst I fish on the long woven tubes of torture over her tender feet. Once we begin the laborious process of cleats over the socks, Pooh Bear enormous vocabulary of verbal abuse is severely limited by my careful restriction to, ”That is uncomfortable. May we try again?”
Pooh Bear loves the moment the winter boxes open- more clothes to stuff in her already snug drawers. She lets out squeals of delight as she discovers the used shoe supply. This morning she’s joyfully raced into my room to model for me some hand-me-down sneakers and pretty slips-ons. I take a painful mental note that one will require socks (oof!) and the other tights (oaf!).
“Pooh Bear, my dear, soon you’ll have to put on socks and tights with those. Is there enough wiggle room in that sneaker?”, I nonchalantly ask as plops the shoe on her foot in my lap.
She wrinkles up her cute little nose and replies, “Oh, Mom. I HATE sock and tights!”
So, the battle will rage on. She’s just five, so I’ve only done this for the past four years in a row. At least it hasn’t been all five years, as I suppose it took her the first year of her life to work up such stocking loathing.
I think I need a Tylenol or a glass of wine. Or perhaps I'll wash the tylenol down with a glass of wine.