Scrumpled Socks

River's new thing this week is scrumpled socks. If his socks slide down even a millimetre, he yells out a siren, like a fire alarm when the battery is dead. So I run over yelling "sock alert" "sock alert", and pull them up tight, so there are no wrinkles, no bumps, no scrumples (as Sikhona says). And he laughs, as if the world is alright again, things are back in order. He gives that knowing look. "Thanks Poppa, I can cope now." And I set him down to do a tenth loop around the kitchen island, running, running, attached to a stretchy dog leash pulling his sisters who are calling out "Run doggy run. Sit. Stay. Run." And he laughs like only toddlers can, this deep belly chortle that seems tied to everything good in the universe. And then the alarm sounds again. "Sock alert!" "Sock alert!" And I run over, and there is a definite wrinkle in his left sock. And Poppa makes the world right again. It is becoming the Thing of the week, like the anchor that grounds out the stresses of being two years old. If I have my socks on tight, pulled up, then I can take on my sisters, I can handle things. He even woke up this morning with an arm outstretched, holding a sock, calling out, "Sock! Sock!" Mary-Kate mumbled, "maybe we can leave the socks off when you're sleeping." "No!" And the alarm continues. Socks back on. Put the world right. He even does it with his onesie pyjamas that have built in feet. There really ain't much to neaten up on those feet, but I still pull, and straighten, and give the foot massage. For even the act of connecting, of finding mutual agreement, "Is that better?" "Yep", he nods, and goes back into his world with a connection to something real, a tether to order, a grounding rod.