"I just want Pajama Jeans!"

Over the weekend I watched an episode of The Joy of Painting. It's not like I made sure to be home when it was on or anything; when you have a baby they tend to wake up at random times of the night. And then you go into zombie-mode & blankly stare at anything on TV, all the while trying to stay awake & not drop the bottle. Or, you know...the baby. So there I was, 4 in the morning, staring at Bob Ross' frobeard as he banged out another landscape (My grandma has 2 landscape paintings in her house that I'm convinced are Ross works & I told her I want them when she dies. She already wrote my name on them. STOKED!).

He impresses me, whatever I'll say it. I'm impressed because I can't do that. He paints with a freakin' piece of metal for crying out loud. Easy strokes create waterfalls, but if I tried the same thing, it would be a blob. I think being a kid is like being Bob Ross. Everything is happy (happy little trees, happy little streams, happy little roadkill--right?) & the world is beautiful. Bob Ross can start with nothing & turn it into something great, using his imagination.

A impresses me every day. He's come a long way from the NICU four years ago. He was a charmer then & he's been a charmer ever since. And his dance moves are impeccable. I'm just going to say he got his rhythm from Biggie T, because he certainly didn't get it from me. I could go on & on about this kid. Simply put, he is AMAZING. I'm not surprised of course; he was birthed from my loins. I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty awesome myself.

I think my favorite thing about A is his sense of humor. Biggie T & I have this sarcastic, dry sense of humor & he gets it. He's beginning to master the come-back ("You're up past your bedtime!") & his mocking tone is almost too good. I can hear you cringing now. That girl is raising a rude little boy. He'll never know right from wrong. You couldn't be more off. He is polite & respectful...most of the time. He knows when to joke & when to be serious.

We were playing Toy Story Memory on Saturday morning. He was winning, mostly because I would flip certain cards so he knew where they were & mostly because my short term memory is shit. Biggie T was feeding E & a commercial for Pajama Jeans came on. I told Biggie T I needed them. "So comfy! I could hang out all day in my jeans & not worry about be uncomfortable when I fall asleep in them, because they are pajamas!" He seemed less than impressed. He doesn't seem to get that I have this infomercial addiction. Anything half-way decent that I've ever seen on TV (Magic Bullet, Jack LaLanne Juicer, Tony Little's Gazelle) I've wanted. Desperately. One could argue that it's not a real addiction if I don't actually buy the stuff. 'Cause I don't. Not having a credit card as a kid kept me from spending before. And Biggie T's iron grip on the bank account keeps hindering me now. As the commercial ended & I complained to Biggie T that he never lets me have anything, I kept losing at Memory.

Time had passed. When I asked A what he might fancy for dinner he stood up, proclaimed, "I just want Pajama Jeans!" & galloped off into his room.

A, birth of my loins. Fifty-percent awesome me. He'll probably grow up & need therapy, but dammit at least he'll have some sort of self-aware humor about it.