Getting out of the house in the morning is, at best, a complete fiasco. Just as I was ready to leave today, I looked down at the bench and realized something was missing. “Where are my socks?” I asked frantically.
Miles rounded the corner from the kitchen and beckoned me to follow. He walked all the way to the back corner then wedged himself through the half-open door to the washer and dryer. And then he pointed into the sliver of space between the dryer and the far wall.
“There it is!” he declared.
“Miles!” I shouted. “Man, I’m trying to get out of here!”
But he was already darting away, giggling uncontrollably, leaving me to cram my own body into the tight space and uncomfortably contort myself to retrieve what was now a dust-covered pair of socks.
The Perils (& Pride) of Paternity 