Grunge

Last night I put Lyla on our bed and folded clothes while she watched. Undershirts seemed to be her favorite; when each no-longer-white shirt billowed above her, she stared in amazement.

And she had a lot to say about socks. I showed her the white ones and the gray ones and some brown ones, too. She liked it when I draped socks over her legs or torso. I reminded her not to tell her mother about this sock activity, for she would not have approved.

"But they're just clean socks, Daddy," Lyla cooed.

"Yes, but Mommy thinks anything that has ever touched a foot is dirty."

"Is that why she gets mad when you turn off the TV with your foot?"

"That's a lie, honey. Daddy has never done that."

"But I saw--"

"Shh."

I was totally into grunge during the late part of middle school and early part of high school. At least I thought I was. If fashion continues to be cyclical, then Lyla might be into retro-grunge once she hits that age. She'll be like, "Look Dad, this flannel shirt is so grunge."

And I'll be like, "Do you even know what grunge is?"

"Yeah, it's like, whatever."

"Hey, do you remember when I used to drape socks over you when you were a baby?"

She'll make a face. "Dad, that's grunge."