When a family welcomes their first child, someone often throws them a baby shower. Thereby “showering” a family with love, diapers, and plastic contraptions to ease the parenting journey. This is all a ruse. None of these things make it easier. What all new parents actually need is three days of uninterrupted sleep and $50,000 cash for first-year incidentals. But tradition is tradition, and tradition means giving clothes that the child will grow out of in 60 days. These days, with subsequent children, I have learned people throw “sprinkles,” which is a celebration on a smaller scale. There were no such things when I had my second child. But there were pajamas.
I had many thoughtful people bring over food and a new toy for the big sister, and my best friend brought a most welcome surprise. Pajamas - a gift just for me. The year was 2003, and she had purchased a soft cotton two-piece pajama set in size medium. New. Blue. Glorious. Even in my post-baby fog, I was a bit put off she had chosen a size medium when I so clearly wore a small. Couldn’t she SEE how svelte I would be in just a matter of days? When I asked her about it, she shrugged and said, “I figured you’d need a medium so you’ll be comfortable.”
I wanted the small, but I needed to be comfortable more. I wore those pajamas non-stop for the next year. I wore them at two in the morning, begging the newborn to stop screaming. I wore them at five in the morning, pacing the kitchen floor and carrying that giant-headed baby around, hoping he would fall asleep. He didn’t. I wore them in the car to go through the drive-through for coffee or take my daughter to pre-school, where another mom would escort her through the door. I wore them in the pick-up line for groceries in the dead of winter with two car seats wedged in the back. I wore them on weekends and on Tuesdays and on all the other days.
And then I wore them some more. I wore them through the years when there were clear bedtimes and then the longer years fighting over curfew. It’s important to be comfortable when screaming at a teenager because you need to take many deep breaths to argue your position and also be free to flap your arms wildly for effect. I had the pajamas on when I picked up kids from late practices and late after-parties from high school dances and late New Year’s Eve bashes and especially from what’s his name’s house, who I never saw again.
I did have to throw away the ribbed pajama top after spilling nail polish on it somewhere around 2014. Yet the striped pants lived on.
I never once packed them for a trip or weekend away. They were not vacation pajamas. Not for the carefree, fun version of me. They were workhorse pajamas for the real version of me, and they stayed at home. I wore them when I walked the dog with the wide bottom hem stuffed into rain boots. I wore them when the kids were driving and came home from the world in the wee hours and needed comfort, guidance, discipline, or a grilled cheese.
And now they are paper-thin in spots. They are shredded on the bottom. Shredded as if I was wearing them when I was Bruce Banner, but now I am Hulk. They look ridiculous. The waistband is misshapen, and the elastic shows through in spots, yet I still don’t have the heart to get rid of them. They have held up better in some ways than I have. My son, that baby who kept me up all night from birth through high school, is now 20. Occasionally, he still keeps me up, but I worry less with him halfway across the country for reasons I cannot explain.
Gratitude is in the air this month. It’s impossible to predict who and what will be with us for the long haul of life - through all the peaks and valleys. I’m so grateful for the tiny things that bring us comfort. I’m grateful for enduring friendships that bring encouragement and laughter. I’m grateful for the wisdom of early choices like buying size medium.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood, Minnesota with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.