the sara ochs blog

I have long been a fan of footed pajamas for babies and toddlers. I think I have a fear that my sweet babies will somehow get frostbite and become human popsicles in their sleep. Even though we live in the deep South and have central heating and the temperature in our house has never ever gotten below 65 degrees. But an irrational fear does not have to make sense. 

Sullivan is the last of the childrens to have “footie jammies” in active rotation. My personal rule is if a child is potty trained that they are too grown for footie jammies. It seems like too much trouble to completely undress just to make a trip to the bathroom. And also my childrens do not announce their need for the bathroom facilities until it is almost too late. So time is of the essence. (Coincidentally, potty training seems to coincide with the ability of a child to adjust sheets and comforters during the night to keep covered despite sleeping like an active tornado. Thus the fear of death by freezing is alleviated.)

Despite my unspoken and possibly nonsensical rule, Sullivan still prefers footie jammies if he is allowed the choice of jammies on any particular night. It might be because he is a nudist at heart and the zipper allows a quick flash of belly button. Or it might be because I call footie jammies zoot suits and he thinks I am hilarious and and he likes to scream the phrase “zoot suit” over and over and over. Whatever the reason, Sullivan knows what he likes and he likes a zoot suit. 

Anderson is a huge fan of whatever Sullivan is a fan of and Anderson has had a hankering for a zoot suit of his own. Maybe because he remembers wearing the zoot suits that Sullivan now wears or maybe because he is also a wannabe nudist. Anderson has begged and pleaded for a zoot suit, even asking me to make one for him. (Bless his heart. Me sewing curtains in NO way means that I could make actual clothes with zippers and sleeves and places for legs.) Sadly, but not surprisingly, we have been unsuccessful on our halfhearted quest to find footed pajamas in a size eight. Eight months, yes. Grown child size eight, not so much. Until yesterday.

Yesterday we made a stop at the walmarts and on a random rack in the middle of the store we saw a size eight footed pajamas just hanging there like an angel had placed it there just for Anderson. I am not even kidding! Exclamation points! There was no visible price tag and we were in a huge rush and we had to leave the zoot suit at the store. Anderson was crushed and I felt like the worst mother in the world. Only not really because it is kind of ridiculous and he has plenty of jammies and he forgot about the whole thing as soon as we got to the car and started talking about making cookies after lunch. 

I went back to the walmarts this morning after I dropped the big kids off at school on the OFF OFF chance that I would be able to find that one lonely zoot suit somewhere in the store AND that I would be able to find someone to tell me the price. Believe it or not I found that zoot suit (Can you even believe it was not snatched up in the 18 hours since I had last seen it?) in just a few minutes. Miracle! Providence! I took the suit to the customer service desk in hopes of finding a price. In my head I had set a five dollar limit on it. Meaning that if it cost five dollars or less I would buy it with my leftover Christlas dollars but if it cost even a nickel more (I HATE NICKELS!) it would stay at the walmarts. I figured I had nothing to lose. Anderson had forgotten about it and I had cash dollars. I held my breath (not really) while the cashier punched in one number at a time from a minuscule tag that she found inside the jammies. The price flashed up on the screen as…DRUMROLL PLEASE…five dollars. I kind of laughed and pulled out my wallet. The whole thing was too funny and what else was I going to spend my Christlas dollars on? Diet Coke? Pommade? 

I laid the new zoot suit out on Anderson’s bed and I am waiting for him to find it before I say anything. I can only guess the antics that will ensue. I will post a picture update later if my little mister allows and if I am able to take a picture that maintains a certain level of modesty and propriety. Don’t hold your breath. But do imagine my noodle of a son doing a dance that looks like a marionette puppet clothed in footed pajamas. I can promise that is worth five dollars.