This Shit is Pajamas (P-A-J-A-M-A-S)

I think I own half a pair of pajamas. I have a pair of pink lounge pants with watermelon slices on them, which I wear to bed with worn-out tank tops. Westley, on the other hand, has about eighty hojillion pairs of pajamas.

OMG! Pajama-spolsion!

I'm up to my elbows in pajamas ranging in size from teeny-tiny to smallish. It's time to start sorting through the old baby clothes and decide what I want to pack up and save and what I want to send on (or in some cases, send back) to Goodwill.

Until recently, Westley wore pajamas almost exclusively. Day or night, out in the world or around the house, it didn't matter. Pajamas are warm, and dressing the baby in them means not having to deal with baby socks. Of course babies look cute in eensy "real" clothes, but pants are such a hassle, especially with a onesie and a giant cloth diaper underneath.

But somewhere between the social smiling and the losing of the birth hair and gaining of the real hair (if see-through blond duck fluff hair counts as "real"), Westley got to the point where pajamas in public seem wrong. He's no longer an tiny babe; he's got head control and an inquisitive stare and seriously chubby thighs. He's a big, grown-up baby and he should be wearing real clothes during the day. And it turns out, not all baby pants are created equal.

Some baby pants have snaps up the inseam, eliminating the Mom vs. 6M-sized Jeans Smackdown at diaper-change time. Hellz yeah.

Now if I could just find a baby-sized corduroy jacket with elbow patches, we'd be all set.

.....................................