Christmas was a nice, relaxing day during which the boys were inundated with Legos and Magic cards and I was inundated with pajamas. Specifically, red-and-white-striped, monkey-themed footie pajamas.
It was my own horrific version of A Christmas Story, only instead of Ralphie's pink bunny pajamas given to him by his well-intentioned aunt, I was faced with a giant sack made of festive candy-cane-colored fleece with two sock monkeys dangling from the bottom. There was no eccentric aunt to blame, only Husband. Betrayed by my own spouse! I should have known.
To make matters worse, the kids absolutely LOVED the monkey pajamas, and there was no end to the requests for me to try them on. At one point, the two of them were jumping around gleefully singing:
We represent the monkey pajama guild,
The monkey pajama guild,
The monkey pajama guild.
And in the name of
The monkey pajama guiiiiiiiiild…
We wish to welcome you to Munchkinland!
Embrace the monkey pajamas, campaigned Husband. Instead, I stuffed them as far down into the gap between the couch cushions as they would go (not very far), and then feigned important business in the kitchen. I have a hard enough time getting people to take me seriously in my own house. I don't need to be walking around wearing ridiculous one-piece monkey-pajamas.
Later on after lunch, as I was napping on the couch, the 11YO came over and whispered in my ear: You'd be so much warmer in your monkey pajamas!
Sure, yeah, if you count shame-based hotness. I blindly batted him away. My dreams were tormented by mischievous monkeys.
After dinner and much cajoling, I finally promised the children I would try on the monkey pajamas. And then the pajamas would be returned. As soon as the stores opened the next day.
I emerged in full-blown monkey mode to much hooting and hollering and carrying on. The kids were so enthusiastic, I threatened to buy them their own set of monkey pajamas. They continued undeterred. A few minutes later, the 11YO found me brushing my teeth in the bathroom wearing my usual boring pajamas. He took note of my utter lack of candy stripes and monkeyless feet. As he turned to walk away, he lingered a second to say, in the most perfect deadpan: You disgust me!
I sprayed toothpaste all over the bathroom.
Still, the monkeys had to go. Except I was too lazy to leave the house the next day. Or the day after that. Then, after a fun New Year's Eve with too much wine, beef bourguignon, and goat cheese cake with dried cherry compote (WINTERSWEET, page 194), I woke up on New Year's Day and guess what I was wearing?