Sock it to me.

Okay, so I lied yesterday. Really, I meant to post again, but then life got in the way.

Being back to work after a two weeks absence for training was no fun. Then I finally went to pick up my copy of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows. Then it was off to my weekly critique group. Between my travels and those from others in the group (trips to Costa Rica, Austin for the Texas League of Writers Conference, a week at the Iowa writers workshop) our group had not met in a good while. So I got to go to Houston and Norman and hang out with postal workers. My fellow member traveled abroad and hung out with other writers and learned many valuable things about the craft. I got the short end of that stick.

After critique I camped out with Harry and read until the dark side of midnight.

Twice this weekend I was reminded of a story involving my oldest son. First at a backyard party in honor of friends who are being transferred to Fort Worth. Amarillo is about six hours north a a bit west of Ft. Worth so while we will still see these friends on occasion it will not be often. The second reminder came from a fellow blogger but more on that at the end of this post. Also I haven't mentioned my sons in a good while. Probably not since the post about me doing the hokey pokey in my underwear. My son is almost seven now but this story took place when he was just shy of three.

For those who might not now my house is out in the boonies, the sticks, B.F.E. -- choose your own adjective. A simple trip to nearest convenience store is a good jog.

So one late summer day my wife decides to send me to the store for ice or something. My son, always eager to go somewhere began shouting, "I wanna go! I wanna go!"

So I instructed him to put his shoes on. He looked and looked but couldn't seem to find them or his socks. Finally after about five minuted of him whining and wanting help he found his shoes but not his socks.

Minutes later my patience was running thin so I said, "Just put your shoes on. You don't need socks."

"Yes I do. Help me. I can't find them. Where are they?" All said in a high pitched whine. His big blue eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

"If you don't hurry I'm going to leave you here."

This unleashed the tears as he sobbed, "But I can't find my socks."

Again I said, "Just put your shoes on and come one. Socks are for weenies anyway."

The sobs ceased. The tears stopped flowing as my offspring looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. Several seconds went by as he stared at me with something close to disgust on his young face. Finally he said, "Dad, socks are for my feet, not my weenie."

Once you've read this pop on over to Alicia's blog and read the post that reminded me of this story, and if you have a young child of your own, watch what you call it, or they are sure to call you out for your word choices.