When I was a child, my mother used to say, “Be sure to wear clean underwear in case you’re hit by a car.” I couldn’t understand that. If you were hit by a car, wouldn’t you have bigger problems than underwear?

After having children of my own, I finally understood. What she really meant was “…so the doctors will know your mother brought you up right.”

But here’s the thing. When you arrive at a hospital, the first thing they do is give you a big plastic bag labeled “Patient Belongings” for all your clothes, including shoes and underwear. If you’re conscious, you fill that yourself. And if you’re unconscious – well, what does it matter?

The time when you’ll want clean underwear is when your child is admitted to the hospital. I learned this when my second son, at 4 months, was admitted for a severe case of asthma. After showing me the baby’s crib, the nurse pointed to the beaten-up easy chair beside it.

“This folds out,” she said.

“What for?” I asked.

“For you, of course. You are staying with the baby, aren’t you?”

“I — I guess so.”

After a week the baby and I were finally released. I had seen the rest of my family only briefly, when I ran home to say “hello” and fill my pockets with a few essential items.

As we came in the door, my first-born looked up and said, “Why did you bring him?” Perhaps he thought that baby brothers were like library books — you took them home from the hospital and enjoyed them for a while and then returned them.

I devoted myself to catching up with laundry — especially socks. Somehow the baby was always missing one. Strangers would stop me, in the grocery store, to inform me that, “He’s missing a sock.”

“Gee, thanks for telling me.” Like I hadn’t known. I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me to take off that second sock; instead, I just apologized and kept looking for the first one. Somehow whenever you found one, the other one had always disappeared. Why should they have to match anyway?

Finally, the Christmas holidays approached and we were free to visit my family in Washington, D.C. The high point for me was a private tour of the White House, especially the West Wing — thanks to a brother who had connections. Even so my husband and I had had to send all sorts of documentation, including but not limited to passport photos and birthdates.

We were actually inside the White House standing at the guard’s desk, while my brother discussed with the guards whether or not they would let us have a peek at the Oval Office.

Of course, these aren’t just any security guards — they’re the Secret Service. So if you have a dispute with them about, say, a memo detailing which employees are allowed to impress their out-of-town relatives with a trip through the White House – you’re not just arguing with any old security guard, you’re arguing with the Secret Service. And you’re liable to lose.

There seemed to be some problem about our clearance. Oh, no! Was it that speeding ticket I never paid? The rent deposit I walked out on rather than argue about it in 1976? Something I said in my high school application for Clerk-Typist, Grade 5?

I started fiddling nervously with something in my coat pocket. What was that in my pocket, anyway? It felt soft like fleece — but I thought I’d left those gloves home. Maybe it was a sock? A sock! At last! I had finally found the baby’s missing sock!

Now, I’m no fool. I know how to behave around people with guns, like the Secret Service. I know you don’t make any sudden moves. So even though we had already been through both the metal detector and the pat-down, I made sure that, whatever it was, I pulled it S-L-O-W-L-Y out of my pocket.

And that’s how I came to be standing in the West Wing of the White House, holding high in the air a pair of my own underwear.

At least it was clean.