So the other day I did the unthinkable. I went to Target and bought pajamas … for myself. That’s right. Sure, I bought some long sleeved shirts for the kids, but I neglected to buy them pajamas. I know. What was I thinking? (For some reason, I can always be talked into buying pajamas, toothbrushes, and books–I’d probably buy a complete stranger a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a book if he/she asked.)
It didn’t help that these pajamas have dogs and milk-bones on them, like so:
I mean, who wouldn’t want a pair.
So, yesterday at Target, I found two more pairs, in the boys’ section (shh, don’t tell Kyra, but it’s the reason Andrew’s wearing them). Same exact pajamas, red, with dogs and milk-bones. I wondered if Andrew would want to wear the same pajamas as me. Kyra–she was all over that. Remember those mother-daughter Laura Ashley dresses? Well, let’s just say it’s probably a good thing there aren’t any of those stores around here.
But with Andrew, I wasn’t sure. I’ve crossed over that threshold and now have the power to embarrass. And like a small nuclear device, just the mention of using it gets a reaction.
But the pajamas? Just too cool. By the time we walked through the door last night, Andrew had dubbed us: Team Milk-bone. They changed into them before dinner.
I’m hoping they change out of them sometime today. Go Team Milk-bone.
Today I need to pick up my Thanksgiving-in-a-box. I know. The sacrilege. How my foodie friends even read this blog is beyond me. We informally priced it one year and figured Thanksgiving-in-a-box costs the same as buying all the ingredients and making it from scratch.
But here’s the beauty part: tomorrow, when everyone else is busy turning their kitchens into disaster areas, I’ll pop everything into the oven, go write for few hours, then take everything out of the oven.
Now that’s something to be thankful for.
Writing Wrongs 
