Pajamas in public: outlawed

I spend an abnormal amount of time in my garage doing what I’ve loosely defined as “putzing.” Playing with power tools, painting anything I can get my hands on and climbing in the boat to take the occasional pretend fishing trip with Rinn. More often than not I’m still wearing running tights and a fanny pack after having taken the dog for his morning jaunt. I’ve learned that puppies are much less destructive if their energy is expelled in more constructive avenues like two mile walks and terrorizing the neighborhood squirrel population. The same principle applies to toddlers. Keep Rinn and Tui outside for a few hours in the morning and the house maintains a semblance of serenity while I shower and get myself ready for work.

It was never my intention to become the mother whose child is still wandering around the house clad in his pajamas well into the afternoon but anyone with small children knows the struggle involved in trying to keep clothes free from dirt and food stains long enough to even get out of the house. If you need proof, watch a toddler consume a bowl of yogurt. Getting that spoon from the bowl to their mouth without leaving residue on their face, spilling the overflow on the counter or splashing it onto the backside of their shorts is tricky business. I should’ve bought stock in OxiClean.

Combine this with my own frequent disregard for clothing that’s socially acceptable and you would think I have a kid who relishes the opportunity to mob around in Paw Patrol jammies until lunch. Think again. In an effort to skip the in-between-sleep-and-going-to-dance-class outfit and reduce whatever carbon footprint is left behind from doing immeasurable loads of laundry, I found myself encouraging Rinn to venture outside in his pajamas for the few moments we had before having to put on something more presentable and more than likely, less comfortable.


Speechless I looked down at my own outfit; some old tank that should’ve been tossed years ago, a mismatched sports bra that makes my chest look like that of an eighth grade boy, leopard lounge shorts and...Crocs. Yes, I own Crocs but before you storm my home with torches and pitchforks you should know that they’re perfect for yard work so long as you’re comfortable with your neighbors actually seeing you wear them. Also I've never actually left my property wearing them, but drop a stone planter pot on your toe in a pair of flip-flops and you’ll understand my argument.

By Rinn’s standards, it’s I that should’ve been embarrassed. This is why I write a parent-lifestyle blog and not a fashion one. Sure that outfit was in particularly bad taste but it’s not like I wasn’t planning on changing into something clean but with an eerily similar silhouette. Cue stretchy waistbands, bralettes and Birkenstocks. If you see me in denim of any variety it’s only because I probably over indulged in Busch Light or wings and fries and want to make sure I can still squeeze into pants whose waist isn’t fashioned out of elastic.

Either I’m going to have to work on lowering Rinn’s standards or use the threat of you’ll-stay-in-your-pajamas-forever next time he gets ahold of my acrylic paints and turns the driveway gold.

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