Christmas Pajamas

I knew what was in the box.

I didn’t have to pick it up and examine the dimensions.  I didn’t have to shake it to feel the weight distribution.  I already knew.  I knew the instant my eye caught the label with my name.

The shiny paper, glittered bow, and location under a tree all announced the reason for the gift.  Anyone and everyone could see that this was a Christmas present.  But I had the precognitive knowledge of its contents.  Inside that beautiful box were my new pajamas.

Christmas always had a sort of repetition that bordered on reverent tradition.  For my first ten December 25ths the family would wake up before dawn, rip open presents, and then pile into the car and sleep for the few hours it took Dad to drive to Grandma’s.  We would spend the holiday week up in “The Mountains”, as we called it, enjoying the typical Northeast winter activities.

Nothing really changed when my family moved up to The Mountains to join Grandma.  The next ten Christmases mirrored the first.  We would wake up before dawn (my brother never learned patience), rip open presents, and then pile into the car and sleep for the few minutes it took Dad to drive to Grandma’s.  And every trip to Grandma’s on Christmas Day included a box with new pajamas.

I’m sure that during the early years I didn’t much care for the pajamas.  What kid would? But I never resented them like Ralphie (of course Grandma would never give cause for resentment with a pink bunny outfit; she kept it classy starting with footed onesies and naturally graduating to smart, flannel two-pieces).  In fact, earlier than most kids would begin to appreciate clothing for Christmas, I began to look forward to the pajamas.

I lived in those pajamas for the duration of the holiday week.  I’d spend whole days in them playing whichever video game I received from my parents.  I’d go sledding in my new pjs; just throw the snow pants on over top.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert – all spent in the new pajamas.  After puberty (but before personal hygiene) I’d have to wash them once or twice during the holiday, but I would use the previous year’s jammies to hold me over.  Mario didn’t change his outfit; I wasn’t going to change mine.

The opening of the box became a finely rehearsed skit where everyone played a part.  I would laugh and say something like, “I wonder what these are?” I’d then shred the ribbons, bows, and paper and hold up the new pajamas to the laughter and cheers of the family.  Someone would comment that the new ones were the nicest ones yet and that it was good timing as I was growing out of the old ones.  I would then walk over and give Grandma a thank you hug.  Year after year that scene played out.

Somehow the Christmas pajamas came to represent far more than a fun tradition.  For Grandma they became a way of outfitting me for the year ahead while taking a moment to reflect on the time gone by.  She could measure my past year’s growth by the rising hems of the pajamas I was wearing while opening their replacement (with growth spurt years turning the pajamas into capris).  Another year recorded, inexplicably slow for me but in a flash for Grandma.

For me, something as silly as pajamas has become a token of my childhood.  Flannel pajama sets make me immediately call up memories of winter, Christmas, and Grandma.  Though I know I looked forward to it every year, I didn’t realize just how much until a Christmas came and went without that box under the tree.

I received my last pair of pajamas at 20, the last Christmas I spent with Grandma.  I’ve never had, nor do I want, another pair.