Dark clouds and steady raindrops seduced me into snoozing a half-hour longer than I intended, which explains why our breakfast consisted of cereal eaten in hasty gulps five minutes before we needed to leave the house.

As I cleared dishes off the table (five minutes after we should have left), I found a pair of filthy socks crumpled into a ball on my eldest child’s chair.  “Throw these away,” I demanded.  “They’re full of holes!”

“No they’re not,”  she protested.  As I unfurled them, I realized that I’d not seen holes but instead black patches of ground-in dirt.  “Give them to me,” she said.  “I don’t want to be late.”

“Child, you are not wearing these socks!” I told her.

“Why not?  They’re not dirty!”

I was flummoxed.  Not dirty?  Could I be that my laundry skillz had slipped so far that this disgusting pair of socks had emerged “clean” from the wash?  I sniffed them, momentarily forgetting the Parents’ Maxim which states that under no circumstance should an adult ever smell anything that’s previously been in the possession of a child.

I needn’t have worried about the laundry; the socks clearly had been well-worn.  I pointed this out to my lovely daughter.  “I know Mommy,” she sheepishly admitted.  “I was trying for a record.”

“But they smell awful!  How many days did you wear these?”

“No, they smell good!  And I lost count.”

I asked her what in the name of God had possessed her to attempt the record for the wearing of dirty socks.  Of course she had no good answer to this question.  I have no answers either, just more and more questions.  Why are my children so interested in stinky underthings?  If let her wear filthy socks would you think that I’m accepting of various modes of self-expression or just allowing her to be a slob?  And am I FailMom if I don’t notice the filthy socks until they’ve been worn an uncountable number of days?