Children enjoy nothing more than a crisp, clean pair of white socks. Properly sized foot wear with a reinforced heel and a custom fit toe; throw in a snug fit, and a band that’s just barely visible above the ankle and the kids will feel as if their feet have died and gone to heaven.

My children rarely experience footwear bliss, and I’d like to formally state for the record that this is not my fault. I attempt to collect their socks, heaven knows I do. I’ve pulled dirty socks out of gym bags, sand boxes and the gas tanks of their Little Tikes Cozy Coupe Cars. I’ve soaked them, I’ve scrubbed them, and I sent them through the dryer sporting the mountain fresh scent of name-brand bleach.

Sometimes the socks are paired and actually returned to a drawer to await further use. Some times they hang out in the dryer for a number of cycles waiting for a person or persons who feel like assisting with the mating process. But more often than not, the socks are tossed into a basket with other unmated socks to spend an indefinite period of time that they will one day refer to as their lonely years.

Either way, my children have access to clean socks, and I feel that this information should be made known. Especially since I’ve not been able to live down what happened in an all-school Mass that occurred in 2001.

At or about the time this Mass was being held, I was home enjoying a lovely lunch. Meanwhile, the priest, Father Richard, was beginning his sermon.

The church was packed with the Catholic school system in its entirety. Teachers and students were in attendance, principals lurked about and members of administration were seated front and center.

Father Richard began his sermon with a punch. “Clean socks are a good thing,” he stated for all in attendance. “My mother liked clean socks, I like clean socks, and you,” he said to a young parishioner in the congregation, “do you like clean socks?”

“I do like clean socks,” replied the little guy quite happily.

“That’s good to know,” continued Father Richard. “Tell me, son, are your socks clean?”

They say there was a shuffling and that the cute little first-grader actually stirred in his seat with discomfort. That’s what they say, but I couldn’t prove it because you see, I was having a salad at the time and living under the false pretense that all was right in the world.

“No,” the first-grader finally answered.

“Your socks aren’t clean?”

“No, Father Richard, they’re not clean.”

“Were they clean yesterday?”

“No.”

“The day before?”

“No.”

“Tell me, son, how many days are you into these socks?”

“Three.”

Instead of moving past the informant and his tattletale information and getting on with his homily, Father Richard stepped closer to the student with his microphone in tow, “You’re three days into your socks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, son,” the priest asked for all to hear, “who’s your mother.”

“My mother is Lori Clinch.”

Iit wasn’t until that evening when my good friend, Ethel, called me and said through a bout of laughter, “Boy, did Huey drop the bomb on you today. You don’t have clean socks at your house, and now, thanks to the morning Mass, the whole world knows it.”

I felt I was the only mother who fell short in the sock department and I’ve felt that way for the past several years. Right up until just last week when I was at the school and helping to weigh a darling little group of shoeless first-graders.

“Say,” I said to one little lad as he climbed upon the scale, “you only have one sock.”

“I know,” he said with pride.

“So, where’s the other one?”

“This sock is the only sock that my mom had clean.”

I don’t know her, but I’ll tell you this, that little guy’s mother is my kind of woman.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.