“When’s Nate coming over?”
I heard this about fifty times in the span of an hour this morning, my four-year-old Noodle too excited about the pending arrival of his bestie to even manage a proper breakfast.
His weekend uniform is always the same; it’s pajamas or bust. I’ve stopped trying to convince him that it’s proper to get dressed to run errands. For him, clothes are for school, and begrudgingly, for special occasions. Even then he insists on pjs underneath, and there’s always a Clark Kent style quick change if the outing runs too late for his sensitive tastes.
I don’t fight him on this, because I’d wear my pjs everywhere if I wasn’t constantly trying to hide myself in fashion.
He’s taught me a lot, my little Noodle. Today, I realized that I want more play dates too. Little Nate arrived in his closest proximity to pjs, because he knows that’s how we roll on the weekends. I met his grandparents, all the way from Germany, with my hair smelling like the meatballs I’d fried last night and a pair of track pants tugged on under my sleep shirt. Gotta keep it real.
So, now I’m booking play dates. Come in your pjs, or the next best thing. Bring a sugar free, gluten free treat if you have time. If not, maybe we’ll bake something together. We can knit, watch Netflix, play YouTube show and tell, eat snacks, drink tea or wine or whatever. Just come hang out.
Or invite me over. I don’t care if your house is a mess, or if your cupboards are dirty. I’m a terrible housekeeper, and I’m tired of avoiding people because I’m ashamed of this. I won’t judge you, I’ll just be happy for the company.
Let’s connect with the unbridled joy of children. As adults, we have the advantage of calling it a day before someone gets smashed in the head with a truck.