It’s those jammies. You know the kind, those one piece fleece kind with feet. They got to me the other night. Got me all choked up and stuff. Over jammies.
As I was holding Adden before bed, I kept looking down at his feet. All zippered in, nice and snug. I wondered how long he would wear those kinda jammies. Maybe when he’s seven, but not likely. He already wants to be big like Daddy. And these are little kid jammies.
My eyes welled over jammies.
Maybe it’s really not about the jammies after all, though, you think? It’s about a little boy, drooling in his momma’s arms. It’s about being cozy and safe and loved. It’s about a one year old’s dreams of conquering the kitchen cupboards. It’s about a woman’s dreams coming true… to hold this little one and to call him mine.
Forget if this crazy kiddo robs me of sleep and sanity nights without number. Forget if he delights in pulling used coffee filters out of the trash. Grinds everywhere…. Forget if he creates implements of destruction with a mere fork or pen. Forget if I really never know where my toothbrush has been before I go in for a brush. It’s always a gamble.
He’s my little boy.
And for this season, I will delight in fleecy jammies. You know the kind, with the feet.
And I will give thanks and thanks and thanks for just this.
Sure, God is on that thankful list. And Paul and Selah and the rest of my family of course. Our home. Freedom. Church. The Bible. Good health. Food. Clean water…
But sometimes, at least for me, these big ticket items lose their grandeur. They become ordinary, everyday, commonplace. They never lose their magic or wonder, but I do.
Sometimes the best thing I can do for myself and my family is to make a practice of excavating even small, seemingly insignificant gifts. And saying thanks for them.
Cause really. If I fail to thank God for fleecy footed jammies, I’m going to look right on past everything else in my life too.