Some people like to celebrate the end of the week with a drink.
Me, I whoop it up by ordering or making pizza.
But Thing 2 gets his weekend groove on by wearing what we have dubbed his "Friday Pants". He starts talking about them on Wednesday because they need to be RTW (ready to wear).
"Are my Friday Pants ready?" he asked me Wednesday morning through a muffled mass of pillows and blankets and stuffies. From the whiny tone, his emergence from this warm heap did not seem imminent and I could sense a difficult morning brewing. So with a cheerfulness I did not feel, I injected drama and flair into my voice as I explained how GREAT it was to be on TOP of the MOUNTAIN of Wednesday and the view downhill to Friday was FREE AND CLEAR!!!! It was not the time to mention there would be one more swimming practice, 3 more rounds of homework, and a dreaded spelling test. All these parts were left out because the end goal was making it to the bus ON TIME without starting another round of woe. Some mornings you really do have to work harder than others.
This perked him up enough to get out of bed (Score 1 for Mom, extra points for guile) and begin the quest for his Friday Pants. He expressed concern that his Friday Pants weren't in his drawer or anywhere in his room and he hoped that meant they were in the washing machine.
I probably don't really need to point out that this is the only time he expresses any awareness that I am Queen Laundress and that I alone hold the key to his Friday Pants happiness. Once, when he was around 5 and craved order, he discovered a love of matching and folding socks and I felt a brief flash of hope. This lasted two weeks and my dreams of a willing laundering compatriot were dashed yet again. Thing 1 flirted with me as well to no long-term rewards on my part. So, at least in this area of domesticity, I must rule with an iron fist. Or two.
"No, " I said, "but they will be."
"Good. And you know, I should change the name to Weekend Pants because I don't really like to get out of them until you make me on Monday."
My chirpy reply of " 'Tis true my little Friday Pants King!" earned me a fantastical eye roll. I double dog dare all of my reader's children to top that eye roll. But everyone in this little house is well aware of much he does not like to divest himself of his Friday Pants until Monday morning. But we do have standards. Sometimes. If we leave the house, or 24 hours has passed since he's changed them, or there will be visitors or, and most importantly, when they fail the crucial sniff test. This dilemma is dealt with on an 'as needed' basis.
To the outsider, these Friday Pants look like your average charcoal grey sweat pants. To Thing 2, they are perfect. They are not double layered, they are not made of some sort of windbreaker-like material, they are not so fleecy that he sweats, and they have no itchy scratchy tag or terrible holes. The drawstring cannot be seen and they are long enough and thick enough and just everything enough to be considered Friday Pants.
It always has been and always will be the little things that mean the most.
Or, maybe not so little.