Where do lost socks go?

a lighthearted poem by tired mother

As mother of eight I bide the fight
'gainst filthy socks that rise at night
defeat o'er hundreds in one fell swoop
without bomb, without tanks and sans troop
Yet when the time comes to make them pair
Some don't show up, dissappeared in thin air
Missing in action where did they flee
Held hostage in drawers under lock and key?
Rescued from wash by those on missions
Used by mad science in reverse fission?
No 'tis not any of these fates so dreary
They became hangers beneath driers
That's my theory.