Is there anything more wonderful than the site of a freshly bathed child, damp hair rumpled, wearing a pair of footie pajamas? Maybe one, who was our fellow ice cream shop customer last night – a boy wearing pajamas, snow boots, and bike helmet, devouring a chocolate ice cream cone. Or this one, which I caught this morning during my early morning run -a towheaded boy, stumbling after his father and older sister as they took the dog out for a morning walk, clutching a blanket and still wearing his truck-covered jammies. His hair shot straight back from his head, as though he had his own personal wind machine combined with a very liberal application of Aqua Net. Or maybe this – a little girl in purple pajamas, with a wrinkled and ruffled dress yanked on over her pajamas, riding in the cart at a grocery store and benevolently waving at her fellow shoppers.
I am a sucker for pajama-clad kids, especially in public. My own kids rarely remain in their pajamas past 8 am, except of course on Christmas morning when pajamas are the requisite present-opening uniform. It’s just so much easier for me to change them into their clothes before they even get downstairs and start the day, and neither of them has (as of yet) insisted on 24-7 pajama time.
But whenever I see a kid in public pajamas, I’m absolutely delighted. The adorable rumpledness of it, the impishness, the sense that the kid wearing pajamas is probably just as rowdy and opinionated as my own boys, having insisted on wearing her favorite dog-covered 100% cotton set and gotten away with it. It’s the imperfectness of it, and the devotion to comfort.
Of course, it’s all mixed with a little envy that I can’t get away with running around in a set of fleece footie pajamas, or in a plaid flannel set paired with a tiara and muddy sneakers.
Maybe, this Mother’s Day, I’ll follow their lead, and spend the day in my pajamas.