Pajama Genes

Not, not PajamaJeans. Pajama genes. The pajama gene is a strong one in our family. My mom comes home from work and gets into her PJs. When she was a stay-at-home mom, she drove us to school on days too cold to walk, wearing a flannel nightgown with a long coat over it. She picked us up after marching band rehearsal similarly attired. I don’t know which side of her family passed the pajama gene to her, but I definitely got it. I get home and I can’t wait to get out of my bra and restrictive clothing and into something pajama-like. I’m more yoga pants than flannel nightgowns, so I like to think I pull it off, but yeah, it’s all about the pajamas.

When we have an unscheduled day, we all wear pajamas. All. Flippin’. Day. Not even the weird October opportunity for my kids to play in the snow managed to get me into clothing on a pajama day. (Yes, that's me in actual pajamas. Actual pajamas with snow boots. Since the pajama flow chart post, I have acquired a few true pajama items.)

My kids are no exception. When we get dressed, they immediately ask, “Where are we going?” They know we don’t get dressed unless we have plans. This leads to an embarrassing number of photos and videos on facebook in which my children are wearing pajamas. But it’s not just nurture. I feel quite certain that the pajama gene is nature too. We got home yesterday from a day of errands and dance class and a blissful afternoon in the Chick-fil-A play area. The kids had been really sweet, and had earned enough marbles in their reward jars for a coveted “marble present.” A new marble present should have been enough to distract even my pajama-loving kids from the urge to strip down.

But no.

Five minutes into playing with his new “Mater saves Christmas” snow-covered Mater and McQueen, my son stopped and requested pajamas. “Because when I sit down I feel the buttons on my jeans and they are bothering me.” Ah, my son, I understand. I support you. Here are some pajamas for you, my little love. Because there is nothing more annoying than trying to play with your toy cars with a waistband pinching and jean pocket buttons poking into your butt. I get it, man. I totally get it. You are of my people. We, the pajama people.

Be proud of your pajama heritage, my son. You come from a long line of people who don’t like clothing to poke at them. You are descended from a clan of cotton-knit-wearing, pantyhose eschewing, shoe-less, bra-less cozy people. Fly your yummy-soft flannel flag, my son! Wear your pajama genes with pride.