The doorbell goes and I bounce down the stairs to receive a delivery. Relief washes over me as I rip open the brown packaging and the new socks spill out. This is more than a delivery of socks.

In my household, with a mixture of autism and ADHD, socks are meaningful. We can be forgetful and disorganised, but also hyperfocused and incredibly productive. The thinking in this house can be literal, linear and precise; and in contrast, spontaneous energetic and free. None of us want to apply ourselves to something that seems boring, and socks are really boring.

Socks are also sensory and a signal that change is coming. Socks can mean getting dressed or leaving the house, or even worse – school. Socks can be too hot, too cold, too fluffy or too thin. They can be scratchy or itchy. The seams and cuffs are a serious problem. Baggy is so frustrating and too tight is impossible. Socks can feel wrong for no reason at all.

Single socks are flung, discarded and misplaced. Individual socks turn up in the fruit bowl, in a handbag, under the trampoline or in the car. We discover a tiny sock in a box that has been lost for seven years. I am the self-appointed sock manager of this house and it takes its toll.

I have simplified my own sock strategy over time. For me, it is always black so I can lose and replace a sock with ease. “I never know where any of my socks are,” my son shouts almost every day. At least once a month my husband asks: “Why do we have this basket full of odd socks?” “Because we are who we are,” I reply without hesitation.

I catch my daughter at the door leaving the house in mismatched neon socks. “No one cares about socks, mum,” she says. I call after her as she disappears around the corner: “Please wear the black socks for school, it’s what the ‘normal’ people do.”