By scientific estimation, based upon the samples I've brought out, there were approximately six million dirty socks, give or take a thousand, recently in residence in my child's room. They were very cleverly concealed, which is why I failed to detect their presence before now. But an expedition into her inner sanctum has produced a miracle. Yes, my friends, I have discovered the legendary Sock Graveyard.

 Like elephants who travel to the Elephant Graveyard by using only their instincts or, perhaps by following a trail of peanuts cleverly placed along the path, Jumbo knows when his number's up, he must make his way to that sacred place and take the big nose dive.

 Socks, it appears, have similar customs. Upon realizing their time on this earth has come to an end, they make their way to my house, up the staircase and into my daughter's bedroom, which, by virtue of its decoration (in Modern Dempsy Dumpster), is  the perfect repository for used socks. 

 There are clothes outgrown and clothes discarded, clothes on the floor, clothes on the bed, under the bed and in the bottom of the closet. There are shoes, shoes everywhere, but not a single pairing that can be worn in public. There are signs of childhood washed away by a newly sprung interest in eye shadow (green and not allowed in any color). There are Barney CD's cast aside in favor of CDs that feature boys who sing and dance while wearing earrings. There are hundreds of hair things: combs, brushes, clips, pins, barrettes and pony tail holders. There's glitter and there's dirt. There's food that has seen better days. At least, I think it used to be food. And there are socks and lots of them.

 This remarkable discovery came about because it was my daughter's birthday and she wanted to invite some friends over. Her idea of clean and mine are diametrically opposed, so I decided to enter the Valley of Dust and tackle the question haunting me for some time: is there really carpet under all that debris? (The answer, by the way, is "Yes" there is carpet but the color remains a mystery.) Little did I know that while I was filling large garbage bags with what Elizabeth calls her "stuff," I would discover where socks go to cash in. It was very sad.

 Sock carcasses were everywhere. They expired under every piece of furniture, in every container, even hiding behind her tennis racket in the closet. Some were elderly and had been worn threadbare, while others were almost brand new. I am happy to report I survived this perilous mission. Lesser mothers might have been overcome by the fumes generated from millions of used socks, but not me. I never realized just how grateful I'd be for sinus problems.

 After making this significant discovery, I felt it was pretty darn important to  document how the Sock Graveyard ended up being located in my home. It was obvious  the expiring socks belly-crawled out of hampers all across the nation, where they were undoubtedly deposited by their owners, and made their way to my daughter's bedroom floor. Once there, they scooted in and under everything in sight, curled up into dirt-encrusted balls and passed on, leaving nothing but dingy shells behind.

 If I never accomplish another thing, I'm proud to be the one to provide  the  answer for this enigma, which has plagued mankind (make that womankind) since cave children kicked their used socks behind the saber-tooth tiger bones over in the corner. And it is with a heavy heart I break this terrible news: our Sock Graveyard has closed its doors. Fumigation and removal were too much of a task for just one mom.

 But don't despair. I'm betting if you check under Junior's bed right now, you'll find a healthy little crop of dead socks. That means you're starting your own, personal Sock Graveyard right there in your home and I think it's a wonderful idea.