the pajama game is the game i'm in
In the event I am ever chosen to lead the free world, expect the following to be instigated immediately:
- No sequels to stupid horror movies. Additionally, no movies and/or television shows will be remade from old television shows.
- I will marry Bono, and serve as the inspiration for at least three of 12 songs on each of U2's subsequent releases.
- Research money will be set aside annually until such time a comfortable bra and a sensible, albeit sexy, pair of women's shoes are created.
- Brownies are ripe with vitamins, anti-aging properties, and calorie free
- All citizens will be expected to spend three days maximum/one day minimum in their pajamas.
This last mandate is actually the one aspect of world leadership I'm most looking forward to. It resides just slightly above having Bono sing passionate songs of angst about me, and mightily trumps the comfortable bra cause for there's rarely been a time my bra wearing has peacefully coexisted with my pajama wearing. Hell, I'm wearing pajamas right now. At least twice a month, I try to plant the idea that pajamas promote productivity and we should be able to wear them at work.
While I put together an exploratory team to gauge my chances of seeing these matters bloom into full glory, my kindergartner is already working behind the scenes at the grassroots level to sabotage my chances. About once a month, my son's class earns enough good behavior points to have a special day, and most often, the group (minus my little independent spirit) chooses to have a Pajama Day.
Last week, crushed by the mighty defeat handed to him by his classmates (the boy seriously wants Stuffed Animal Day), my son came home from school, tossed his backpack down, looked me in the eye and practically spit out the words I love to hear.
"Tomorrow is...(sigh) Pajama (sigh) Day," he declared. This is the part I love to hear, and that love typically stops there, but sometimes I think it's super cute to hear such determination falling from a six year old's mouth, so I egg him on and get what follows:
"I will NOT be wearing mine," he continued. "You can't make me. Don't even try. I will not. Nope. This will not be happening today. It will not be happening tomorrow. It will not be happening ever. Discussion ends now."
Now, I love Pajama Day because it means I don't have to have a small battle with the boy about what he's going to wear to class that day. These battles typically begin when I launch the "Why don't you wear your pink tshirt with your camo pants today, baby?" bomb. When he arrived home at 4 p.m., last Wednesday to tell me the following day would be Pajama Day at school, it should be noted that I was still in my pajamas. When my oldest son asked if I was still wearing the pajamas I put on that morning (therein lies the challenge of my personal Pajama Day mandate, for I don't sleep in the things), I wiped the crumbs from my antioxidant rich, calorie free brownie off my "Bad Kitty" pajama tank and lied, but whatever. All good world leaders lie at some point.
That night unleashed drama the likes of which I'd expect if I had daughters. I love the day, but I didn't make a big deal about it, because I've yet to get what my son's big deal about this experience is. Cripes, even the teacher rolls in sporting pajamas, and part of the kindergarten day involves rest time, so how comfortable would it be to snuggle up on the floor in your comfy jams. Yet, over dinner, my boy further declared his disinterest in sporting p.j.'s to school. There was bargaining. There was stress. There was debate. There may have been tears. Wait. Yes. There were tears. One would think I was hoping to send the kid to the bus stop sporting feetie pajamas with bunny ears and a little squeaker that played a lullaby when you poked his tiny tummy. Which, yes, it would be cute as sin, but the kid has this kick ass pair of skull and cross bones pajamas that are always at the ready for situations such as this. Stomping down the stairs the next morning, he was sporting the compromise we made during his bath time, when he'd reminded me for the 1,204 time in the event I'd not heard, that he'd not be wearing his pajamas the next day. Track pants over rocker pajama pants, his pajama shirt, skull blazing across his little chest, topping him off.
"If it makes you happy, I'll do this," he said, purely to make me happy, because his spiteful sounding voice made me grin, and that's really all that matters. That I'm happy. In my own pajamas, I gave him a hug, assured him he could change into regular clothes the instant he got home at the end of the day, even though I would perhaps still be in my own pajamas, and sent him on his way.
Then I plopped on the couch, tucked my matching "Bad Kitty" slippers under myself, and dreamt of the perfect bra and world domination. In that order. Get ready, America. It's coming.