a mom’s ode to yoga pants

I stood out in the driveway Monday afternoon, and Mr. Fantastic looked up from the pile of leaves he was raking.

“Are those new sweatpants?” he asked me.

“Yes. I bought them at Academy today.”

“You just caaaannnn’t resist another pair of sweatpants, can you?’ he grinned and teased me.

“You should be nicer to me on your day off,” I replied, a little icily, but with a wink. Perfect passive-aggressive delivery is important in fake fights with one’s spouse over inconsequential clothing choices.

Obviously, I felt a little spicy on Monday. He likes that, though, so I got away with it. The truth is, he’s right. I can’t resist another pair of sweatpants.

Because sweatpants won’t let you down, man. Neither will yoga pants, which are the more formal version of sweatpants. Maxi dresses will work in a pinch, too, because they’re actually just glorified granny nightgowns you’re allowed to wear in broad daylight.

With these long, hard days that hinge on the attitudes of children who lack a true grasp of rational thinking, all I can concretely expect out of every day is a comfortable outfit.

It is my SUV-driving, carpool-shuffling, homework-managing, meal-planning, booboo-bandaging, hair-braiding, baseball-cheering, Constitutional, and perhaps even God-given right as an American mom to wear pants that say, “I feel cozy, and today, that’s enough for me.”

No, they aren’t runway-tastic. I don’t expect anyone to ask me where I bought them. They don’t make me feel glamorous, or fancy, or particularly spectacular in any way.

These pants are my uniform, reminding me that the battle is on. Faithful soldiers can’t be bothered with living in fear of constant doom by wearing dry clean only items. I feel invincible in sweatpants. I am conquering new lands of patience, discipline, self-control, and diligence in my own and my children’s souls. These are my traveling clothes as I explore bold new worlds and live out the messy adventures called “motherhood”. I wear them proudly.

(Plus, if the opportunity for an unexpected nap arises, I’m golden.)

Thank you, sweatpants, for making it all possible. I love you. I can’t resist you. You are perfect.

The next time you see a mom in Target, with her hair in a messy bun, wearing sweatpants and flip flops, a baby in the basket and several others running amok through the toy aisle, give her a nod and smile. That woman is a hero in her comfortable clothes. 

And who knows, she might really need the encouragement….