My kids are older now, and sometimes I worry that I cannot exactly remember what worked in those very first stories that you needed to read twenty-seven times in a day and not, as a parent, feel like all of the other interests were draining out of your life, and honest emotions, and get-up-and-boogie – like if your former self were to somehow run into this current version on the street, they would hate each other probably, and issue many nervous exclamations to make it stick.
Dear parents, and people you were before that, and people you might become again: I give you New Socks (written, and barely illustrated, and ebulliently punctuated by Bob Shea), oh, and kids, you are welcome to join the celebration if you like, but you’re not going to be learning anything today - sorry, no math skills or morals. There are colors for the motivated, just orange, just yellow, black wings and black glasses that you could probably draw yourself with any practice, and the joy for small things that you are likely to once in a while forget. All together then:
“Hey New Socks…
I’d like you to meet someone…
Wood Floor! Whoa!
Good job, Brave New Socks, good job!”