“Hand me a pair of her socks, will you?”, said the Missus.
“Where do we keep them?”, I asked, “Which drawer?” By ‘we’ I meant ‘her’.
“They’re not in a drawer; they’re in the wicker basket, up top”, she replied.
Baby G has her own wardrobe- and I mean that in both the fashion and the Narnian sense of the word- and I am constantly forgetting how it is organized. Every time I’m asked to change her, there will be an inevitable session of eye-rolling and sighs ten minutes later, as the Missus will come in to find that a small tornado has ripped through the room, such was my panic in trying to figure out the correct outfit to stave off hypothermia. Doesn’t Mom know that shit? I just can’t sort out the difference between sleeping sacks and onsies, fleece outer-wear and short sleeve inner-wear. As far as I’m concerned, a ‘onsie’ means ‘one’. That’s as far as I get.
Grabbing those socks, though, gave me pause. I change diapers, clothes, burp the kid, all that stuff, though not even close to the volume that the Missus does. Still, ostensibly I know how big the kid is- I even tried to file her nails once before I caught paranoia that I would saw off her first two phalanges. Picking up her socks, though, was something else. You can’t grab a pair, like a tennis ball. I pinched one pair- of which she has 18,000, all different- between my thumb and forefinger, like a wintergreen Life Saver. It looked like a colorful ball of belly-button lint. They were impossibly small in my clumsy meat-hooks.
Is she really that tiny?