I never knew that so much of my life would be dedicated to forcing my sons to wear underwear. Honestly? I mean, SERIOUSLY? This is an issue? This is a discussion that had to happen more than once? And often enough that I am frustrated to the point that I feel the need to write a blog post about it?
Apparently, so. Apparently, wearing underwear that isn't soft enough/loose enough/tight enough/blue enough/filled-with-the-ability-to-make-you-fly enough is a fate worse than being stabbed in the eyes with spit-sharpened candy canes. Apparently, going commando in JEANS is more comfortable than undergarments that cannot meet the high standards of my underwear snobs.
But the Battle of the Underwear pales in comparison to the war that is fought every day between a certain 7 year old and I. This particular war is the bloodiest of all and deals not with whether they have boxers or briefs but whether or not his socks have 3 gold stripes on them.
I shit you not. He will NOT wear socks without the right stripes on them. Despite the fact that we have hundreds of white boy socks in his approximate foot size, there are about 5 pairs of socks in our home that Evan finds comfortable enough to wear. Sadly, for all of our eardrums, I am not adept at keeping the whites clean or the socks matched. This ineptness results in the piercing of said eardrums when aforementioned middle child is forced to remove the 3 day old socks from his petri-dish feet and he realizes that the replacement socks being casually offered are NOT. GOLD. STRIPED.
And this is the reason that there are days that my children go commando while wearing socks that could walk on their own....
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