“You’re going to be so warm in these!” With Jack’s gleeful assistance, I tugged pair after pair of footed pajamas out of the UPS box. The bright Crayola colors were cheerful, they were exactly Jack’s size, and they were in even better shape than the Ebay seller had promised.
We dug to the bottom of the box, Jack because the chaos of flinging clothes around made him laugh, and me because the seller’s policy was to include a free gift with each purchase, and I couldn’t guess what it could possibly be.
At last I pulled out our tissue-wrapped surprise. Jack tore off the paper to reveal a vintage pair of toddler pajamas. My heart stuttered in my chest. I KNEW those pajamas, those soft white terrycloth PJs with red rocket ships on them. I recognized the snaps that ran all the way around the tummy—the little shirt snapped to the pants for ease in dressing the baby, of course—and the snaps seemed to singe my hands with cold fire wherever they touched. I sat frozen in shock, my muscles locked with fear, and felt acid rise in my throat.
And then something snapped, and I lurched to my feet and took off running, pajamas in hand. I held them pinched between finger and thumb, as far away from myself as possible, like a diaper full of diarrhea, and gagged as I ran through the house. They were horrible, they were terrifying, they were evil! I couldn’t look at them! I couldn’t bear to see them ever again!
What could I do? I couldn’t put them in the trash, because they would still be there, lurking in the can, when it came time to take the bag out to the dumpster. I had no way to incinerate them. I couldn’t magic them into dust. I had to get them out of my hand NOW. I opened random cupboards in the laundry area, desperate to find a secure hiding place. Success! One of the shelves held a 50-pound bag of kitty litter. I shoved the hideous pajamas under the bag, all the way to the back.
I dropped to my knees, dizzy with relief, the anxiety fading. There. I couldn’t see them, or touch them, and I was the only one who ever changed the cat box, so no one else would touch them either. We were safe. My son came toddling over, and I hugged him close and promised him that bag would stay there forever, we would never have to see those pajamas again. When we needed more kitty litter I’d buy a nice new bag. He giggled, and tugged at my hair. I was glad he was too little to share the cat litter story with his dad, because I knew I couldn’t bear to even think of those pajamas again. Seeing or touching them would be like gargling toxic waste.
It took half a bottle of hand soap to wash the psychic residue away. As I scrubbed my hands for the umpteenth time, an unwelcome thought wandered into my mind. I wasn’t acting like someone who had triumphed over a threat to her family’s safety; I was acting like someone who needed serious psychiatric help. I stared into my own eyes in the bathroom mirror. “What is going on with me?”
By dinnertime, I’d changed my mind. I was not the kind of person who needed psychiatric help. I was strong, I was logical, I had a scientific mind, and I could figure this out. And somehow when my husband Jim asked about my day, the subject of predatory pajamas and deliverance via kitty litter never came up.