Dear Baby Jammies with Snaps,
Hi. Not sure if you remember me, but we met a few nights ago in the nursery. It was 1 a.m., the baby was screaming and we were both covered in poop. In the soft glow of the cool-mist humidifier, I squinted at you in desperate exhaustion, muttering words so ugly even the white noise machine couldn’t drown them out. I threw you defiantly into the hamper.
You are a tricky one. Has anyone ever mentioned you’re kind of complex and vindictive? I mean, you lure unsuspecting moms and dads into your non-sensical clutches using the SOFTEST materials and the CUTEST patterns that no decent person can resist. Yet you fail to mention your fastener system is an archaic mind game. You stand boldly next to your zippered counterparts, (who, I might add, are clearly a more evolved pajama species), shamelessly promoting yourself with nary a disclaimer. So, we give in. We buy you.
And for a while, the arrangement works. We take you home, wash you in dye- and fragrance- and everything-free detergent, and place you in a closet full of teeny-tiny clothing. Your debut comes shortly thereafter when we lovingly select you, (yes you!) to clothe our small offspring after evening bathtime.
But then things go downhill. Because, you see, infants poop at night, the rascals that they are, which requires their clumsy, sleep-deprived parents to rouse themselves and initiate a series of activities that rivals the most advanced NASCAR pit crew maneuver. Late-night diaper changes require a truly unfair combination of hand-eye coordination, fine-motor skills and patience. Parents have none of those things, and you require all of them. It’s a match made in a dark, dark place.
The idea that anyone is capable of fastening a series of tiny snaps in the dark, on no sleep, while navigating a petite tsunami of bodily fluids AND singing a lullaby is ludicrous. You might as well suggest I bake a cake, blindfolded, while steering a cruise ship. There is no logic or positive outcome in either scenario.
Inevitably, I mismatch your parts in the awkward dance of dressing a squirming baby. No matter how many times I try, I always end up with an extra piece on one leg without a matching fastener. I unsnap and resnap and STILL CANNOT WIN. The third failed attempt causes me to surrender, meekly. I put my child back to bed with a ridiculous, gaping hole in her jammies where I quite literally could not make ends meet.
So unfortunately we’ve reached the end of our relationship. I wish it didn’t have to come to this; I’d love you to be part of our jammie repertoire, but you aren’t willing to be more accomodating and frankly I’m exhausted. You’re cute, but you’re impractical, like the college boyfriend whose only method of transportation is a Vespa, so it’s time we parted ways.