At some point in our lives, all of us receive the same ‘gift’ from our mothers. It happens at the point of total exasperation when she looks at you and says those prophetic words, “I hope you get a kid just like you!”

I remember it being said to me and it came true. I got one. Although, I must say I made out on the deal. My sister was told, “I hope you get six kids just like you!” My sister was very smart. She stopped at two and they are both, for the most part, just like her.

I’d like to say, I’ve never felt like this was a bad thing.

Every family has that one child among all of their children that has no “off” button. Ours came in the form of a little spit of a girl named, Rachel.

Without an ultrasound, I knew when I was four months pregnant that she was a girl. I also knew she was a whirlwind. She never stopped moving. She still hasn’t.

This picture is Rachel at 5 years old. She was very excited about her recital. Notice the dirty sneakers, they were actually fairly new. Rachel had a ‘way’ with sneakers. She had a ‘way’ with most things and early on received the nickname “Miss Destructo” from my husband.

Also notice the adorable little white cotton socks.

They were just out of the package and, as such, had not yet been destroyed. I would like to write this blog as a tribute to those little white cotton socks. For they would soon come to their undoing at the hands of my five-year-old.

It was a beautiful summer day in Boonton, New Jersey. The sun was shining, we were done with school, and the kids were all playing in the backyard. Rachel came inside and went to her room. She was quiet for more than a few minutes. Always cause for concern.

I was about to go see what kind of havoc she was wreaking, when she came out. She wanted to paint her fingernails. I told her she couldn’t and to put the polish, which I knew she’d already taken out, away. She obediently and without whining went back to her room. Within minutes she was flying out the back door to play. I checked her room and was very pleased to see that everything had been put away. I thought all was well, little did I know.

After dinner that night, I told the kids to go get ready for their baths. I was washing dinner dishes. We didn’t have a dishwashing ‘machine’. In fact, for the first 17 years of our marriage we didn’t have a dishwashing ‘machine’. They were so cold and impersonal. We had a dishwashing ‘person’, me. But, I’ll save that one for another day. On with the story…

In the midst of my dishwashing reverly, I was interrupted.

Nothing could prepare me for the sight I was about to see. 

There she was, standing in the kitchen with her little white cotton socks hanging, inside out, off of her toes. They were stuck. She looked at me and said, “Mommy, my socks won’t come off.” She seemed surprised.

In a way, I guess it was my fault. I did tell her not to paint her fingernails but, I did not say anything about her toes. As for the little white socks, they didn’t come clean in the wash and were given a fond farewell. A lesson learned, a memory earned; but, really, it was not that big a deal.