Pajamas

A life lesson

I once read a book titled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. It was a long time ago—both the reading of the book and the actual kindergarten—and I don’t remember much about either.

I do remember playing house (of course) and having graham crackers and milk for a snack. I remember sitting in a circle on a rug and being asked what my phone number was. I replied, “733,” proud that I knew so many numbers in a row but not knowing that was my house number, not my phone number.

I also remember being put on a bus at the beginning of the day and arriving magically at school. Then I was put on another bus at the end of the day but no one told me where to get off. I was FIVE, people. My bus stop was two full blocks from my house and I didn’t have much experience traveling that far on foot alone. How was I supposed to know?

So I just stayed on the bus until the end of the route, at which time the very patient bus driver asked me where I lived and I replied that I didn’t know, even though we had driven right past my house without my yelling, “Hey! That’s my house!” Never try to convince me that enneagram nines are not born that way.

Anyway, the very kind bus driver took me all the way back to school where my mother picked me up and then explained where to get off the next day.

I remember having a dark blue raincoat with matching hat and book bag and boots, and I was the coolest, at least in a downpour. I’m not sure what I needed a book bag for in kindergarten, but I was prepared for it.

Somewhere around this time, my two older brothers and I took turns visiting our grandparents in Cleveland, Ohio, during the summer. The boys would go for two weeks, then I would go for two. Since we lived in New Jersey, the easiest thing to do was fly. Those were the days of $30 direct flights when your mother could walk you on the airplane and buckle your seatbelt, then leave you in the hands of the stewardess, who would give you a set of pilot’s wings if you were a boy, or a stewardess pin if you were a girl. Despite the limiting gender roles, they were good times.

One particular summer, I was maybe seven, a relative of my grandfather’s came at the same time I was there. Her name was Jackie and she was a year older than me. She had beautiful olive skin and dark shiny hair and she walked like she owned the world. She got off her airplane and I was wide-eyed in wonder.

She wore knee-high socks. I wore ankle socks with lace around the edges.

She had dark red leather shoes. Mine were black patent-leather Mary Janes.

She carried a little straw bag with wood handles and a built-in mirror inside. I carried Bobo, my teddy bear.

I was in awe. For the first time in my short life I felt the pain of “not enough” and wanted to be her.

In the car on the way home she chatted confidently with my grandparents, while I just listened and tried to absorb the coolness.

Before I knew it, it was bedtime. I went into the bathroom and changed into my nightie with little pink flowers and ruffles at the armholes.

Jackie changed into harem pajamas.

I was enchanted and could not stop looking at them. She probably thought I was some weird creeper with all the staring, but they were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. They were lined with cream satin and covered with a sheer layer of rich gold with a gold-tasseled belt at the waist. They draped from her shoulders over her long, lean frame and fell into loose pants that flowed like water when she moved. Think “I Dream of Jeannie,” kind of like this:

Apparently I did not hide my staring well, because my grandmother smiled and asked me if I liked them. I nodded shyly and we went to bed.

The next day I thought we would stay home and swim in the pool like we did most days. My grandmother had different plans.

She loaded Jackie and me in the car and we began our quest for harem pajamas. Gram was determined that I was going to have the object of my deepest desire before the day was up or we would die trying, which we almost did, at least in my seven-year-old mind.

I remember sitting in the back seat of the big green Buick with Jackie wondering what we were doing. Why was this such a big deal? Yes, I loved the pajamas, but did we need to give up a day in the pool to drive all over the city looking for them? Was it that important for me to be the same, have the same, feel the same?

I assumed it was since that’s what we were doing, and it was the beginning of comparison, of feeling less-than, not enough. I felt bad that everyone was having a miserable day because of me. (Again, enneagram nine.) I could have handled admiring Jackie and her straw bag with the mirror and her fancy pajamas, and would have gone home after two weeks with my pink-flowered nightie and Bobo and been perfectly happy.

I know without a doubt that my grandmother did this because she loved me and wanted to give me a gift that made me happy. I know her motives were good.

But it’s so easy to fall into the comparison trap, especially now when we can see into everyone else’s lives on social media. We want their pajamas. We think our life will be somehow better if we have them. We think we are so lacking because we don’t have them. We are so wrong.

If I met Jackie today, I’m sure I would find out there were difficulties in her life that harem pajamas didn’t make up for. This is what we learn by the time we’re 62—that things, no matter how desirable they may be, never really make us happy.

Let’s forget the pajamas. Let’s focus on what really matters—our people and our God.