I bought him new pajamas.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
He turned three last week.
So I bought him new pajamas.
He loves his old pajamas. The ones with the feet, that zip from his toes to his chin.
Those one-piece pajamas have served their purpose.
He still hasn’t learned, really, how to sleep on the north-south axis of the bed.
Or to stay underneath the covers.
In the winter, his room is the coldest in our home.
When he wears those pjs, I take comfort in knowing he is warm, regardless of his position in the bed.
But he needed new pajamas.
He probably needed them a while ago.
He’s been reliably potty-trained for months. He should wear something he can take off and put on himself.
And it’s 105 degrees. His tummy and feet aren’t cold.
If anything, he’s hot.
I haven’t polled my friends, but I suspect he was one of the few children still wearing one-piece pajamas.
This child, my child, has grown too quickly at every turn.
Racing through his babyhood, into toddlerhood, and onto boyhood, before I could ever catch my breath.
Always moving to the next milestone.
Never resting, never stopping, his life is flying past.
I just want to hold on.
For one moment, one instant, I want to freeze time and relish it.
Sear the weight and the shape of his body, his little-boy scent, the sound of his voice and lilt of his laughter into my memory forever.
I want it all to slow down.
In his baby pajamas, I could still imagine him as the infant who fell asleep when I rocked him.
The one who hesitantly took his first steps.
And the toddler who cheerfully climbed out of his crib.
He’s a boy now.
Regardless of what he sleeps in.
On his birthday, I greeted him in the morning and asked for a special birthday hug.
And, as he played with Hot Wheels, he told me, “I’m busy, Mom.”
I’m busy, Mom.
I finally bought him new pajamas.
He’s three now.