I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve spent the entire day cleaning out the beans’ room, making way for their "big boy" & "big girl" beds, creating two individualized headboards, quite sure I was more excited than they about their emancipation from the bars of their cribs.

The rest of the day, I sorted through their clothes, checking sizes, weeding out stained clothes, and flat-out ridding their pajama drawers of anything polyester. I don’t care if Dora is on it. It’s going. (Thankfully, Abigail now has 100% cotton Dora PJs). And may I just say, Ew to the Ew. Thank God Phil agrees with me. We just don’t want our kids wearing cartoon Dora or Diego clothes, not to mention anyone from Sesame Street. Prance around in anything you’d like when you’re at home, makes you dance like a dervish, go for it, but please never leave the house wearing an Elmo t-shirt. Unless you’re a twenty-something guy wearing it to be ironic. This is what I consider your "gateway drug"  to piss-poor fashion nonsense. It starts with songs about backpacks, but next thing you know, you’ll be an adult wearing a sports jersey, which is, by definition, an oxymoron. "Adult" "Sports Jersey?" Not unless you’re being paid to wear it. There, the bitch in the house is done. No, wait. Polyester is hideous and a half when it comes to pajamas. It pills. And folded, it sticks to inself, like one of those Halloween costumes, where someone dresses up as Static Cling.

Now then, having nothing to do with any of that judgment, I love cleaning days–organizing days. Currently, no one can find anything in the kids’ room. It’s why our crispy tater tots are sometimes dressed like complete ragamuffins, wearing pajama tops with snowflakes and elephants on iceskates as if they’re meant to be worn in the streets. So I had to step in and create a sense of order. Because, quite frankly, it’s all I can control these days. I get it, no one really cares what your kid is wearing, get over it, if they’re having fun, getting dirty, exploring, that’s all that matters. THAT IS NOT LOST ON ME. They do all that as it is. I just do NOT understand why your kid has to dress like a muppet to prove s/he is indeed being a kid.

Lately, as this beat box of a post demonstrates, my mind darts around, dipping into to-do’s, eager, but unable to really follow a thought through. And when I begin a project, I CANNOT stop until I’m finished. I couldn’t, for example stop at weeding clothes they’d outgrown from the closet. I had to pull together matching outfits, hang them together, so everyone in the house knows what’s to be worn together.

Then, there was the issue of packing. Yes, issue. I am a horrendous packer. We’ll be leaving for Florida, away for a full eight days, to celebrate Thanksgiving with Yiya and "Tia Lea." and there’s weather to consider. All their (and our) summer clothes are so… bright. Not very autumn Thanksgiving. There’s just something wrong about wearing plum velvet in a place with palm trees. But in the end, of course, I realize, that absolutely no one gives a shit. It’s always in our own minds, believing that anyone even cares what we’re wearing, or not wearing, but we all know all that really matters is the stuffing.  And sure, that we’re there–yet another thing for which I’m so thankful, because I look like a dump truck.