The party started 10 minutes ago, but we’ve been in the parking lot for 20. I’m rummaging through the backseat and by the time I make it inside, I only have one excuse.

Sorry. I was just looking for Lucas’s sock.

Early, but still late. It’s the story of our sockless life. But my little guy couldn’t help but play his favorite road trip game in the four-minute drive. He sets those piggies free and lets the shoes fall where they may.

While my 13-year-old non-verbal son struggles with life skills like tying shoes and changing clothes, he can take off shoes like a pro. It’s been his favorite thing since he learned it was possible.

When we come home and I tell my boy to remove his shoes, he does so in his signature style. Lucas takes one arm and leans against whatever is nearby. It might be a wall, a fridge, or me. Either way, he balances on one foot and lifts his slightly double-jointed leg in the air in the style of a figure four. Then, with his free hand, he flips the back of the shoe, sending it spinning through the air like a shiny quarter in a melodramatic movie about gambling.

It’s funny to see and I always worry about where his footwear might land. The real issue, though, is the final destination for his socks. Usually, when I’m off collecting his flown-off kicks from across the room, he disposes of his socks wherever he sees fit.

For a long while, he put them in the sink. Seriously. I think it was because he knows his dirty dishes go in there. It makes sense when you think about it. Still, fishing ankle socks from a soaking pasta bowl that’s been sitting there full of water was not my idea of fun. We worked hard to end that gross, albeit adorable, habit.

Now take the shoe-flipping skill and apply it to the car and you’ll see the issue. No matter how short the car ride is, my son makes sure to remove his footwear.

It doesn’t matter if we’re on a one-minute trip down the street. By the time we settle into park, he’s wiggling toes and missing socks.

If it sounds like I’m complaining, I have nothing on his old bus matron. This poor guy used to rush as soon as they pulled up to squeeze Lucas’s feet back into whatever he was wearing before stripping them off In the case of squashed-back tennis shoes, it was easy to plop him back in. For high tops and boots, it became a challenge.

When you factor in that he’s rolling around and acting like he’s too exhausted to stand up to leave the bus, it makes for a more difficult struggle. The king of tough transitions, my little man can get fussy when going from one place to another. Shoving his soles into some sneaks during times of diress becomes a major event.

When Christmas rolled around, I made sure to tip that matron the same amount as the driver. I even wrote “Thank you for being so patient with my shoes” in the notes. I wrote it on behalf of Lucas, but I’m sure my son appreciates the help he’s been given with his shoes. Although the fact that he does it every single time might tell a different story. We get nothing but constant feet with this kid. It’s as if we’re living in a 1990s Nickelodeon sitcom.

That matron left shortly after Christmas and today, he has a new one. She found her own way around the shoe-time issue. She skips the socks.

To understand why skipping such a simple step saves time, you have to realize that the time spent on Lucas’s socks is mostly spent finding them. He’s like a street magician mixed with a sock puppet performer. Now you see ‘em. Now they’re gone.

So rather than looking all over before getting his shoes on, she just goes right to the shoes. Then she sends him off the bus, with the socks in his pocket.

My little man comes wobbling off and doesn’t seem to care that his feet are unsocked beneath his footgear. Things like that don’t seem to affect him. He’s good to go.

Want proof? On the days that ol’ Mr. Pocketsocks enters my car and loses his socks and shoes, I sometimes make him walk from the car into the house barefoot. He doesn’t care at all. My son is like Fred Flintstone. I don’t know why we buy anything for his feet at all.

You may be reading his and relating to my words right now. After all, kids like Lucas taking off their shoes is nothing new. The sheer determination he has to do it every time he’s in a car might be unique, but the desire to let his feet loose is understandable.

My backseat has hidden socks all over like a senile Easter Bunny wedged them in the center seat and under the mats. This kid tosses ’em around like Johnny Appleseed.

It is just another unexpected twist in our family’s journey. So please, give us an extra ten minutes when we pull up to your event. And, if you find a saturated sock in my sink, please don’t ask about it. We’ll find it later. We always do.