It's always jammy time

Resslin' Around, by Casey Ressler

Although she is only 2, I like to think my daughter looks forward to Tuesdays, when, for a good part of the day, she is hanging with her dad at home. It's my day at home, and I'm sure "housedads" -- even those like me, who do it for only one day a week -- know what that means.

Take last Tuesday, for example. As far as I'm concerned, it was about the perfect day, except for a 2-foot tall tattletale.

We woke up around 9:30 a.m., which is about two hours after the normal wake-up time. "Don't let her sleep late or we'll never get her to bed tonight," was my wife's last directive as she walked out the door around 6:30 a.m. Or at least that's what I thought she said -- I was still sleeping myself.

After waking up, we prepared our throne -- pillows and blankets in front of the television. After my breakfast of coffee and hers of oatmeal, we settled in and enjoyed the finer things in life -- Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder. We sat so close to the television I could feel myself going blind, my eyes burning, just as my mom told me not to do years before, and my wife told me not to just hours prior.

As the noon hour rolled around, I realized that both my daughter and I were still in our pajamas. That wouldn't do, so I changed into a different T-shirt. After all, I'm supposed to be a role model. Madison, however, figured it was nap time, so we both settled in for an hour nap.

Upon the second awakening of the day, I realized we needed to get a little physical exercise into our day. So, still in our pajamas, we walked over to get the mail. When we got back, I thought about getting us both dressed and going Christmas shopping, but the 200-yard trip to the mailbox sapped our energy, so instead of venturing to town, we decided to play kitchen. Madison made me plastic cheeseburgers, topped with plastic whipped cream and plastic Swiss cheese, for lunch. She settled on a plate of plastic tomatoes for herself, topped with plastic cookies.

We played around the house until I looked at the clock and panic kicked in. It was 5 p.m., and mom would be home in about 15 minutes. Neither of us had bathed, we were both in our pajamas and you couldn't find the carpet because toys were scattered everywhere.

Instantly, I snapped into action. I ran upstairs, threw on a pair of jeans and flew back downstairs in a rush. As fast as I could pick up Madison's toys, she would throw them back on the floor.

Finally, with sweat beading down my face, my wife walked in. Before my wife could say, "I'm home," Madison ran over to her and told her, "Still in my jammies," in about as clear of English as can be expected from a 2-year-old.

"In your jammies? What did you guys do today?" my wife asked.

"Well, we were up at 7:30, I took a shower and gave Maddie a bath, then we went Christmas shopping, unloaded the dishwasher, took out the garbage, got the mail and then when I was feeding Maddie dinner, she spilled on her shirt, so I put her back in her pajamas," I told my wife with a straight face.

"Daddy in his jammies, too," Madison said. "Daddy not get dressed either, Mommy."

It was so much easier to convince my wife of our wild adventures before Madison could talk.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. He wishes he could wear pajamas to work.