When I was single, and a career woman, every weekday I rose early, dressed in a skirt and blouse, did my hair, my makeup, and headed to work. On Sundays, it was the same routine for church. But, on Saturdays, I'd sleep late and then work on my chores in my pajamas. I made sure all my friends knew so if they dropped by on Saturday, they wouldn't be shocked by the plain-faced, straight-haired, pajama-clad woman that answered the door.
My friend, Jane, who was my Maid of Honor in my wedding and lives next door to me, would often call early on Saturday morning and wake me up. "Get out of bed, unlock the back door, and get a cup of coffee on," she'd say, "I got somethin' to tell you!" Jane and I never felt compelled to dress for each other. I'd stumble out of bed, start the coffee pot (I always had at least one of those good, flavored creamers), and find something wonderful like muffins to nibble on with our coffee. Jane would throw on her London Fog over her nightgown and run from her back door to mine. We'd sit sipping coffee, nibbling our breakfast, talking, and praying together for a couple of hours. One morning, while she and I were deep in conversation (at all of 7 a.m.), my kitchen door flew open and in walked my neighbor, an older man suffering from Alzheimer's. Apparently, his wife, who was his caregiver, was in the bath or otherwise occupied, and he had snuck out. While Jane and I sat there in shock, he wandered into the living room, smiled at me, sat down in a recliner and commented, "So, we have company today, do we?" I smiled back, walked over to him and said, "Yes, Daddy, we have company," took him by the hand and escorted him out the front door and around to his house. His wife was frustrated and scolded him, to no avail however, because he thought I was his daughter. She thanked me and I returned home in my pajamas. After that, Jane and I always locked the door behind her.
After I had children, and they started school, my mornings became rather hectic. I would rise, wake the children, and immediately start their breakfast. After a whirlwind of eating, reviewing homework, packing lunches, and getting them out the door, I would sit down for a bite myself. Then it was time to put on water to steep for ice tea, unload the dishwasher, get the laundry started, etc. I would get so busy with chores, that it would be well into the morning before I would take the time to get my bath and dress for the day. And I always had to be sure Daelyn was occupied before I could chance "the bath" or the house would be destroyed by the time I was done.
People have asked why I don't rise earlier than the children and get my bath before they're up. I've tried, oh, I've tried, but Daelyn seems to sense my rising and wakes up as soon as I'm out of bed. If I'm up at 4 a.m., he's up at 4 a.m. If I don't get up until 6 a.m., he's not up until 6. There's no getting around his radar, so I'm still faced with the same problem. It makes no difference when Don gets up. Nobody's radar seems to be tuned into him. Only MOM.
Most of my close friends know this about me and no longer ask when seeing me at 3 p.m. in my flannel pajamas if I'm sick. They know pajamas are a pseudonym for work clothes. But the people driving down the road and other acquaintances from the neighborhood probably wonder when they see the baby headed down the driveway on his bike and me chasing behind in my pajamas.
At least I don't wear Victoria's Secret to bed.
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