I’m 31 weeks pregnant and pulled a muscle in my back Thursday night. Badly. As in, stuck halfway bent over, can't get up kind of pulled muscle. I was home alone with the boys and was instantly filled with horror as I realized I was frozen at 45 degrees upright. But this isn’t really a story about that night. Nor is it a story about how I spent Friday hobbling to and from the freezer at work to alternate ice with heat as I logged into Google Meet to teach my students.
It’s a story about socks. Friday I looked in my drawer. Socks. I puffed my cheeks out, holding my breath, and then letting it slowly release. The last time I asked Fausto to put socks on for me was in the last days of my first pregnancy. It went so comically wrong, that I never asked again, opting instead to awkwardly balance in precarious positions to pull my own socks on. I shook my head. Nope. I grabbed a pair of thin, no see ‘em liner socks. They were the easiest to not mess up. Slowly, I crept down the stairs, holding the wall as if it could absorb some of the pain. I entered the flurry of activity in the kitchen and gingerly sat on a chair. “Me puede ayudar con estas medias?” I asked my husband. I passed a single sock over and he lost it. “What are these? These are not socks!” he launched into a fit of deep belly laughter and then set about the task at hand. Saturday I looked in my drawer. Socks. Yesterday’s sock debauckle fresh in my mind, I decided to forgo them for the day. And then Nathan walked in. “Oh good! Papi didn’t help you yet. Can I put on your socks?” Yes, incredibly sweet. Also incredibly humorous that the highlight of my 5-year-olds day was getting to put my socks on. I smiled, grabbing a repeat pair of yesterday's no see ‘em liner socks. “Isn’t it silly that I used to put your socks on and now you’re doing mine?” Sunday I looked in my sock drawer. Socks. Knowing we’d be outside with the boys a bit, I went straight to a pair of stretchy crew socks, come what may. I made my way, quite a bit less gingerly, down the stairs and sat down on a step, handing over the chosen pair to my husband. He deftly pulled them apart, wiggled his fingers down to the toes of one and slid it effortlessly onto my foot. Perfectly. “What?!?” I gaped. “It’s perfect on the first try! How did that even happen?” Becoming a parent changes you, sure. But it also provides you with odd skills that are honed over the years as you repeat mundane tasks day in and day out. It turns out my husband’s secret parenting skill is putting socks on another human’s foot. Today, I’ll gladly take that win.
3 Comments
Hahaha, I feel your struggle! After my most recent C-section, my one pet peeve was that my husband could never get my socks on in a way that felt just right (and he is a parent of 2 now - I think I'm just super particular!), and I tried to stretch myself into all kinds of painful positions for a second to adjust them!
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Susan Dillon
3/8/2021 07:26:00 pm
I hope you are feeling better; it's nice that you have a helpful husband who knows how to put on socks now!
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3/9/2021 06:59:57 am
Oh, I remember those days, and you captured it perfectly. The sigh when you opened up the sock drawer really captures it all!
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AuthorHeidi. Archives
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