The Softer Side of Boys

S-O-C-K-S? What’s that? Did you just ask me what time it is in Spanish?

No? Oh, my three year old can spell socks all by himself, but he can’t put them on his own damn feet. What kind of bass-akwards learning experience am I providing here?

My poor kids don’t get out much. They have each other, and the animals, that provide hours of wrestle-mania type entertainment, and of course they have a television full of fake remotes, sing-a-longs and a mild-mannered octopus, but not very many friends.

It’s not that we’re unsociable or elitist. Well, maybe a little elitist. It’s just that our friends that have kids, okay boys- I admit it, in the same age group all live over an hour away. Needless to say, it’s a project.

About the only chance they have to be around other kids is the hour or two that they spend at the gym daycare. Zane is too small to care and Atticus, well he would rather make pancakes on the fake stovetop then get pushed by a pack of wild children that have obviously inherited a bit of the ‘roid rage. I can’t say that I blame him, but cooking? Pancakes? Come on boy, at least throw a steak on there.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything like, “Those boys will be hungry after they beat each other up Dad, hence the breakfast.”

He just says they’re mean, and despite being able to dress themselves, they can’t carry on a conversation in anything but English. How savage is that?

That’s okay boy, I’ll put those s-o-c-k-s on you. And it’s 10:00.

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