Mama’s Spider-Boy
About twenty years ago, I took an art appreciation class while pursuing my bachelor’s degree in part two of my college education. As an adult student with children, I held a unique perspective than most of my classmates. When assigned an essay in which we were to expound on an ordinary object as a piece of art, I chose a pair of my youngest child’s sleepwear and titled it…
Spider-Boy
Crumbled in a small pile at the foot of my son’s bed lies a pair of royal blue toddler pajama pants and a matching red Spider-Man top. Although they may only sell for $1.25 if donated to Goodwill Industries, to me they are priceless. Most people would not consider these pajamas a work of art, but this well-worn pair should be framed and hung in a gallery.
My young Spider-Boy has spent more days than nights in these Spider-Man jammies. They have become a costume to him, relegated to much more than after-bath attire, and as a result, one could aptly apply the cliche, “They’ve seen better days.” During the route from better days until now, these fine pajamas evolved from manufactured attire to the beloved work of art I hold dearly in my hands and heart.
When they were brand new, the pajamas were a spectacular addition to my son’s wardrobe, yet, as an elderly gentleman ages with distinction or an antique rocker acquires more charm with each nick, this Spider-Man set has more appeal now than it did in its pristine condition. When I find these pajamas, sometimes tossed carelessly aside, I recall the times my young son wore them not only to stay warm at bedtime, but also to imagine himself with the superpowers of his hero.
The pajamas have been washed hundreds of times (whenever I could confiscate them without my son’s knowledge), but I find it remarkable that they still smell like my precious boy. Someone else may detect a fresh laundry scent, but I smell sweet toddler sweat and grime despite the diapers that have leaked in the pants and the gallons of milk and juice that have saturated the spider imprinted on the top. While detergent can clean away these messes, nothing can remove the aroma embedded in my memory of this little boy at play.
Visually, the pajamas are faded and fall well beyond the gently used category. The waistband on the pants has been sewn in two separate places, there is a pantyhose-type run that parallels the seam in the rear, and the front of the right thigh bears a pair of fang marks that luckily have not yet merged into a monstrous hole. The top holds permanent stains from breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and upon further inspection, I discover it is once again time to thread a needle for wrist and collar restitching. It is a miracle that the webbing between the long sleeves and the ribs has not met with similar peril.
These Spider-Man pajamas fit my son tightly now and one might suggest I dump them in the box marked “garage sale” but I do not see what the casual gallery visitor sees. I see a creative young mind expanding his imagination while bursting at the seams. I see Spider-Man defeating the Green Goblin or stopping Doc Ock from destroying the world. Sadly though, my eyes also detect temporal wear and tear, and I suffer the knowledge that worldly distractions will eventually erase the innocence and spontaneity of youth.
As for the texture of these Spider-Man pajamas, a novice would feel a polyester and cotton blend commonly used to produce comfortable pajamas for children. An enthusiast may detect the extra softness of a wrinkle-resistant fabric that has become wrinkle-free adding that without a doubt, they feel like bedtime. My trained sense of touch uncovers what any loving parent would feel: the gentle form of a tired child nestled in my arms after a long day of playing the hero and now ready for nighttime dreams.
When I caress the pants, I feel the muscular legs and firm hind end of a tiny, athletic boy. Lovingly, I stroke the top, beginning at one wrist and following the pattern up to the shoulder, around the collar, and then down the other arm to the other wrist. In an instant, I can feel a tight squeeze, a hug much stronger than one would expect from a young child. I feel love in this set of raggedy Spider-Man pajamas and a yearning to stop this child from growing so he can always be my little Spidy-Boy.
Soon, I fear, these Spider-Man pajamas will have to be retired. I will fold them gingerly and wrap them venerably in a keepsake box so that one day my son can appreciate them in a way unlike he does now. Perhaps like me, he will recognize them as a treasured piece of art. Until then, they may beckon me occasionally with that “THWIIIPPP” sound of a web shooter that forces me to remove them from the vault to experience again the fine art of superhero toddler pajamas.
