Zibby Mag

I count my blessings for the holiday time I got to spend with my kids

By Liz Michalski

The first time I saw one of my kids in another family’s holiday pajamas, it was six years ago, and I had a full-fledged meltdown.

Quietly, of course. To myself. I was home alone with the dog, who, no fan of being stuffed into his own matching holiday outfit, clearly did not take my side. I thought about calling my husband for sympathy and support, but I could imagine how that conversation would go. He already thought the tradition of wearing new matching sleepwear on Christmas Eve was a little crazy, and my outsized reaction would prove it.

Instead, I stared at the photo on Facebook.My oldest child, dressed in bright red and green and wearing a Santa hat, stared back. The picture had been taken at a Christmas tree farm, which meant not only was my then-15-year-old wearing someone else’s holiday theme, they were wearing it in public. Meanwhile, I could barely get my two kids to pose for a Christmas card in civilian clothes.

I burst into tears.

The dog continued to stare dispassionately, so I called a friend.

“I’m being ridiculous,” I wailed, when I had finished explaining. “But I can’t help it.”

“Well,” she said. “Maybe a little. But clearly this bothers you and it’s about more than just pajamas.”

She was right. The past year had been a difficult one, with my kids morphing seemingly overnight from soft-cheeked cherubs to tall, angular beings who glared icily at me in the mornings, as if disappointed that I was still there. The eldest– the one of Christmas tree farm fame– had started dating, which in addition to resulting in the wearing of another family’s holiday pajamas, was causing me serious stress.

Clearly there were far more important things to worry about. So why was I crying over stupid pajamas?

On the surface, themed loungewear was just another holiday chore, one I invariably forgot about until the last minute. No matter how many calendar reminders I set to purchase them early in the season when they’re on sale, I’d find myself frantically shopping in December for a set that would fit all of us. Waiting until the last minute had its price, both financially and sartorially. I recall once overpaying for maroon onesie slumber suits complete with seat flaps, and another season I’d been left with traditional red-and-green plaid when all else was sold out. In my defense, I’d scored some bargains over the years, too. My favorite was the personalized set on Etsy that offered the words Nutcracker, Sugar Plum, and Angry Elf in a range of sizes and colors (I’ll leave you to guess who was voted Angry Elf).

But it wasn’t about what we wore—I found myself explaining to my friend over the phone—it was what they signified. The pajamas were the first present we all opened on Christmas Eve after church. They were what we donned for our annual dinner of Chinese food and holiday movies. As Santa Claus and caroling fell by the wayside, the pajamas were the tradition I could still count on, the one that marked the four of us as a close-knit unit. As a family.

The photo reminded me that I wasn’t ready. That I might never be ready. But the time was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

As the years hurtled by, the pajamas slowed down time. They reminded me of earlier days, when the kids would wake up before the sun to race down the stairs and peer under the tree; of the nights my husband and I worked past midnight to put together doll houses, build train tracks, and fill stockings, powered only by the cookies, milk, and carrots on the end table; of how we’d smiled at each other, bleary eyed, coffee and tea cups clutched in our hands as the kids squealed with excitement over what Santa had left them, all of us dressed the same. Whether we were wearing Christmas trees or reindeers, we were united.

Seeing my child in someone else’s holiday print shared a truth my heart didn’t want to acknowledge: Someday, in the not-so-distant future, my kids might not come home for Christmas. They might form their own units, with their own holiday rituals—and rightfully so. It wouldn’t be long before the person picking out the pajamas wasn’t me, but my children, or their partners, and I’d be lucky (and grateful) if they asked me to don a pair.

The photo reminded me that I wasn’t ready. That I might never be ready. But the time was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

So I cried a little more, and thanked my friend. And then I gave the dog a treat for his patience, and promised him a matching holiday bandana this year. And then I went out and purchased the pajamas I hadn’t gotten around to buying yet.

Time passed. Snowflake, striped, and bauble-bedecked pajamas came and went. And then one night about four years later, my youngest and their steady date decided to join us for a December home movie fest. They strolled into the room in matching blue holiday pajamas that they’d picked out together. A declaration of love, of hitching their stars not to their families but to each other, if only for this night. I took in a sharp breath. My oldest was in college now; my youngest would be heading there in the fall. Lots of letting go had taken place. I felt ready for this one because I understood it was nothing personal—not a rejection of our family or of me—but a young adult’s step toward their future.

All I can do now is count my blessings for the years that my teenagers were willing to spend time with their dad and me—no matter what pajamas they wore or who they brought home. I finally understand that having your kids grow up and leave the nest isn’t a subtraction, because wonderful new people will enter your life, your heart, your family. I’ve grown to love the people my kids have dated. And whenever the opportunity presents itself, I’ll happily sneak a pair of our family pajamas under the tree for them, too.

Liz Michalski is a former reporter and editor. She loves reading fairy tales and sometimes, writing them. Her latest book, Darling Girl, published by Dutton, is a dark adult reimagining of Peter Pan.

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