Yesterday was teacher conference day.
Jonny is doing wonderfully. He is adapting. He is making friends. He is at or above grade level on all of his skills. He is not the best at holding a pencil (he doesn't like the feel) but he is going to get some help for that. All in all this was a very good meeting. But it was all overshadowed by one thing: fucking clothes!
After all the wonderful things said, the teacher suggested that now may be the time to get Jonny out of his pajama pants.
WHAT the Hell? He doesn't wear pajama pants to school. I know, becuase I spend 2 hours every morning in a mildly regimented routine getting that boy ready for school.
I felt like I got punched in the gut.
You mean the striped organic cotton play pants that I get out of the Swedish catalog that cost $40 a pair and are his favorite things ever?
Yep, those.
Fucking perfect.
Turn out they LOOK like PJ's (and they do), so the kids were starting to wonder why Jonny gets to wear PJ's and they don't.
And in all this time of trying to keep Jonny comfortable, happy, motivated about school and what he wear and how it affects his day, I never thought of what other 5 year olds thought. And I don't think Jonny gives a shit either.
But I get it. I do. In my brain.
He is doing great. He is making friends. He is adapting. We don't want what he wears to get in the way of that.
However, on an emotional level, this is my baby and it is hard enough getting the boy in clothes! Who gives a shit?
If he were a girl, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. Because she would wear a matching top, we would call them "leggings" and everyone would think she was so stylish. That is the part that pisses me off. A lot.
The other part that completely threw me off was that I really thought we were doing great. I had the boy in gym shoes for crying out loud! And underpants for God's sake! I am mom of the fucking year!
So yeah, I broke down crying, uncontrollably, in the middle of the school. I had failed Jonny as a parent. I thought we were thriving, and I was missing something. Again. A fucking gain!
Luckily, my awesome husband was there. He reminded me that we are making huge strides. Jonny is reaching all the expectations set for him, and life is good.
We just have to get the kid out of the stripey patns so kids won't think he's the jammies guy.
So we go home, I reapply my makeup, and we talk to Jonny.
He is awesome. His friends and his teacher love him.
And now is the time for bnig boy pants without stripes.
Of course, he cries. he loves stripes! He loves his soft pants!
But, I buck up. Instead of telling him what I want to tell him, that to Hell with what other people think he can wear whatever makes him happy, I go with the mom stuff.
I tell him we can go right now to Target (a magical place) with Sydney, his personal stylist.
We can pick out cool, soft pants that are good for school. We can pick out matching shirts with animals or characters. And if he is awesome, there will be a toy.
By golly, the boy can have whatever he wants.
Victory. We go to the store, and Syd and I pick out awesome pants for him. Some are even soft, comfy fleece (and that is another rant, because if they had graphics on them and no pockets they would be called jammies, but we'll go with it). He loves them. We pick out cool shirts to complete the "big boy look". Both kids get toys. I get a chocolate bar, Damn right.
He is happy. He is adapting. He will make it. And so will I.
We come home and have a fashion show for the granparents. We put the clothes away, and I hide the stripey cotton pants.
And I am DONE with the Swedish catalog. Bastards!
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