This morning I looked in my cupboard and came to the distressing realisation that I now own more pyjamas than jeans. This is one of the many creeping changes into my life that I didn’t realise was actually happening until shocked into accepting it – it’s a bit like when you only realising your children are growing older every time they get their haircut. This prompted me to take stock of my night time comfort wear situation and the results concern me. There are now three dressing gowns hanging on the back of my bedroom door – a heavy winter towelling one, a summer weight wrap and a short velour number that was very handy when breastfeeding in the middle of the night to keep your arms and shoulders toasty warm. Oh yes – I am now the kind of person who owns three dressing gowns and doesn’t even shudder at the term velour.
For my last birthday I received the best present I have ever been given – an electric blanket. They are fucking awesome – dual control, fleecy top, six – yes you read me right six! separate heat settings and a 12 hour mode in which you can gently simmer in your own juices all night should you choose. Oh yeah baby – this bad boy can keep going aaaalll night. Sorry I must pause now and watch a Ryan Gosling film for a bit just to calm down. The only problem is that a bit like a heroin addiction it can spiral out of control. You find yourself lying to your partner ‘what darling – no, it’s only on level three’ and hiding the electricity bills.
What happened to the footloose and fancy free naked sleeper that I used to be – oh yes that’ll be it – age and children. Obviously going to bed every night with an 80% chance that at some point one of them will wake up with a temperature, vomiting, leaking nappy, nightmare, wet bed, toy has dropped out of bed, toy is in bed they don’t want, just coz they fucking feel like it…. makes being naked a lot less appealing. And if you are going to step in a puddle of vomit, poo or piece of lego as well it is much more pleasant in slippers than bare feet.
Then in the morning both the children are hauled into our bed at whatever inhuman hour they decide to wake up and the glorious, sundrenched, technicolour, LSD trip that is Milkshake is switched on in order to try and keep them quiet for just a little longer. Milkshake by the way is a mystery to me. If Cbeebies is a walking holiday in the Chilterns then Milkshake is the all-inclusive in Gran Canaria. All the presenters look like girl/boyband rejects (one of the new ones looks like they’ve just rolled up the wipe down sheeting and stuck a t-shirt on her from all night Babestation), but the programming is heavy hitter after heavy hitter: Peppa Pig – boom! Ben & Holly – out of the park! Mr Men – stop it, stop it, oh ok don’t! This stuff is crack for toddlers. But once the novelty of TV wears off, clothing is essential as they find my and my husband’s bodies both fascinating and hysterical in equal measure. I’m all for helping my children have a healthy body image by being a bit relaxed about nudity and my body but this gets harder when they try and nipple cripple your ‘doodies’ and pull at your pubic hair whilst saying ‘oooh – bouncy’. I know it looks like Art Garfunkel down there all right.
But I won’t lie to you – to be honest it’s not just about the kids. These days I tend to get into my pyjamas about the same time they do. I remember the time when jeans were my comfort wear – now I can’t wait to peel these tight little fuckers off (Kate Moss I blame you and your tiny little legs for skinny jeans and for that whole snorting cocaine off naked dwarves trend – what? she did that at her wedding didn’t she?), ping my bra across the room and slip into something ‘a little more comfortable’ (oh don’t worry my husband stopped getting excited when I say that quite some time ago).
The only thing I’ll stop short on is a onesie. This is not just because they are ridiculous (but they are -stop wearing them people – they are the shellsuit of our time) it is also because you have to basically get naked to do a wee. This is the reason that I will never wear a jumpsuit or playsuit. I was about 6 when playsuits were in the first time round and I can still remember the toilet based panic of trying to get out of the fucking thing in a tight toilet cubicle. And to be honest after having two kids this bladder needs no further challenges. But other than that I have no shame – and it’s all downhill from here people.
My husband and I came across this beauty in a motorway services – just imagine the excitement of the creative type pulling together this packaging when he could include the line ‘As seen on TV (in some countries)’, and isn’t that Michelle Keegan wearing it?