It was an ordinary trip to the laundry room: wet clothes go into the dryer, dry clothes go into the basket. Fairly routine.
. . . until the mister held up the tiniest pink sock I’ve ever seen. Forgotten on the folding counter, this tiny sock somehow made me forget how to transfer clothes into a dryer. Instead, I stood there staring for several long moments.
It was white with pink at the toe and heel: a perfect little girl sock for perfect little girl feet. Of course I’ve seen toddlers socks before and held many a squirming child long enough to stuff his tiny toes into them, but never a sock this small. This was a newborn sock – a mere 3-4 inches long! Who knew feet could ever be that small?! (Seriously, you could have sucked it up with a vacuum cleaner!)
Of course my thoughts of the sock quickly led to thoughts of the foot it belongs on – a foot that would now be cold. And thoughts of the foot led to thoughts of the child, of the feeling of cuddling a warm, snuggly baby while she sleeps. And suddenly there I was, standing in the empty laundry room, reevaluating all the reasons we’ve given for why we can’t have children yet.
Amazing the crazy thoughts a tiny sock will bring you.
It certainly doesn’t help that it seems like every day I log into Facebook and see the posts of another young couple announcing the due date for their new bundle of joy. This summer, it seemed like everyone I knew was getting married; now, it seems like every couple I know is getting pregnant. To my expectant couple friends: I am happy for you all, I am excited to meet your babies, but PLEASE STOP! You’re really not helping those of us who have a firm 4-5 year policy.
It’s certainly not that the mister and I haven’t talked about babies; we talk about them all the time. These conversations somehow always include the mister’s worries that he knows nothing about babies and will probably end up carrying ours around by the ankles or something. I always laugh.
The mister will make a wonderful daddy someday; he really will. And he’ll be one of those fathers who are completely wrapped around their daughters’ pinky fingers and don’t even care. The mister was so melted just by a baby girl sock that I know any daughter we may ever have will be the most spoiled little daddy’s girl there ever was (except for maybe her mother, who was and still is a major daddy’s girl).
We both know we are not ready to be parents yet. We both know we would be in a lot of trouble if we got pregnant now. Yet somehow, still, I can’t help looking at tiny pink socks in the laundry room and wondering how long it will be until I’m washing tiny socks of my own (and trying not to suck them into the vacuum cleaner.)