Lazy Saturday

This morning, I have a cold on top of normal woes of being nearly 9 months pregnant, and Daniel had to go into work, so Sam and I are having a pajama morning (which may or may not become pajama afternoon and pajama evening). Pretty much, I'm letting her do crafts and watch movies while I lay on the couch feeling bad for myself as much as possible. At one point, Sam decided she would like to get dressed and took her feet out of her fleece pajamas before changing her mind about going upstairs to pick out an outfit--which means she has spent the entire morning wearing her pajamas like a cape, sleeves on, feet free, fleece flailing, underpants showing. It's actually pretty darn funny, albeit a little sad as I do realize it is now nearly 11:30. Lest you think I'm utterly negligent--I did shower today, and I just cleaned the kitchen. There's brownies baking in the oven. And during an hour plus of playing playdoh, I did help her with whatever she needed (although I HATE cleaning out that stupid fun factory thing where it squishes out the playdoh and manages to get little pieces wedged in a thousand nooks and crannies). I even vacuumed up all the little reject shreds from the carpet when she was finished, so Daniel would not come home and drop dead at the sight of the floor. I just happen to find pants for Sam on a lazy Saturday overrated at best. So, my kid is wearing a pajama cape, and her hands are covered in marker (eh, they're washable) from the egg carton caterpillar she's currently coloring, and I just realized some of the color is actually on the white playdoh that is still firmly planted under her fingernails. She's fed, she's happy, and her caterpillar looks cute--so what if I'm too embarrassed by both of our appearances to open the door for the salesmen that always come pestering on Saturdays? Trust me, I could look like I'm ready for the Oscar red carpet and I still won't open the door for solicitors.
As part of our morning of chill, I let Sam watch her old home movies. She loves to watch "Baby Sam" and I like that it helps her to see what babies are really like before her brother shows up and she's shocked to see a lump that doesn't do anything but yell and poop and hopefully sleep. She was watching a video of her right around her first birthday when she suddenly yelled "Oh no! Mom! I'm not cute anymore!"
I asked her what she was talking about and she replied "Look at that cute baby! I'm not cute anymore." Although I remember the feeling that I was not as cute as I once was (nothing is more humbling than looking at cute five-year-old self when you're smack in the middle of awkward Junior High years), I don't remember feeling it at two. However, as I look at my playdoh and marker-covered nearly three-year-old, with her undies showing and pajamas hanging down her back, and the small amount of hair she possesses still sticking straight up just as it did when she rolled out of bed--I have to respectfully but adamantly disagree. I think you are still very cute, Samantha. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you are dead wrong.