Onesie Quotes

Society. The same society, I might add, that dictates that little girls should always be sugar and spice and everything nice, which encourages them not to be assertive. And that, in turn, then leads to low self-esteem, which can lead to eating disorders and increased tolerance and acceptance of domestic, sexual, and substance abuse." "You get all that from a pink Onesie?" Leah said after a moment.

I have never been one of those people—I know you aren’t, either—who feels that the love one has for a child is somehow a superior love, one more meaningful, more significant, and grander than any other. I didn’t feel that before Jacob, and I didn’t feel that after. But it is a singular love, because it is a love whose foundation is not physical attraction, or pleasure, or intellect, but fear. You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield.

Are you wearing that?' he [Daniel] said. I looked down. I was wearing my batman onesie. 'Yes,' I said, 'Problem?' 'So many,' he said, turning around. 'So many problems.

Love me, love the onesie.

Mum was in the lounge in her unicorn onesie watching Game of Thrones.

Ali wrinkled her forehead and cocked her head to the side. Clearly, she hadn't prepared herself for me to be pleasant. After a moment, her eyes narrowed. "What exactly did you and Lake did yesterday?" she asked, like we might have held up a gas station and gone on a crime spree across the country, all in the span of just a few hours. "We went to Mexico, had some tequila, eloped with a pair of drug smugglers, and took part-time jobs as exotic dancers. You know, same old, same old." Ali snorted. "I'm torn on stripper names. It's either going to be Lady Love or Wolfsbane Lane. Thoughts?" Ali threw a onesie at me. "Brat.

Did I mention he was wearing a onesie? I’m talking a legit, full-grown man in a SpongeBob onesie.

Because I'm pretty sure we conceived this child the night I ate that pot cookie. I'm eighty-four percent positive our child is going to be born a pot head. It's going to come out with dreadlocks and wearing a Bob Marley onesie. Its first word will probably be 'Whaaaaaazzzzzzzuuuuuup'. It's never, ever going to sleep through the night because it's always going to have the munchies.

Only then did I see. Something was amiss with Patrick's snap-on one piece, or "onesie" as we manly dads like to call it. His chubby thighs, I now realized, were squeezed into the armholes, which were so tight they must have been cutting off his circulation. The collared neck hung between his legs like an udder. Up top, Patrick's head stuck out through the unsnapped crotch, and his arms were lost somewhere in the billowing pant legs. It was quite a look.

There are so many firsts to raising kids, and parents are told to catch them all. But they don’t warn you about the lasts. The last baby onesie. The last time you tie their shoes. The last time they think you have every answer in the world.

No. Christ. Now give me that dragon dick, Blackbird.”  “No way.” I manage to slip out of my chair with the e-reader before he can grab me, waving it toward him in a taunt as I back away toward our rooms. “Goodnight, weirdo. I’m going to bed. Early bird gets the worm, you know. Might plan myself a solo hiking trip to Davis Creek. No boys allowed unless they have scales and a breeding kink.”  “Of all the times to forget my dinosaur onesie at home.” Rowan sighs,

I was just four when a hired teenage field hand attempted to molest me. Miraculously, I got away, and I told my dad. My father made three important choices that day: He listened to me, he believed me, and he took action. I was one of the fortunate ones--I had a childhood.

You are a mask.You are nothing more!There is nothing behind your mask,not a face,nothing!I shall fly in the fullness of the night.Under the moon and the stars I shall hunt the vole,the rat,even the fox.I shall become part of owlkind,no matter where I have to go.But I shall go!And I shall never ever return to the Pure Ones.I defy you.I HAVE FREE WILL!" -Coryn

Smiles will come again, and time heals some wounds and soothes the onesie can't.

By the fridge, Lily holds a sleepy toddler in a panda onesie, and she whispers quietly with Lo. He has this look like he’s half-listening but really he’s thinking about how adorable his wife fucking is, especially with his daughter right there. I know how this’ll go so I don’t wait around to watch. He’ll tease her by leaning in for a kiss, only to stick his tongue in Lily’s ear. She’ll whisper-hiss his name and then slug his shoulder. He’ll mock wince. They’ll look infatuated with each other, remembering how many years they’ve spent. How far their lives have come. How much love they’ve shared. Their romance has never changed. We all thank the fucking world for that because there is no Lily without Lo. There is no Lo without Lily

I have never been one of those people—I know you aren’t, either—who feels that the love one has for a child is somehow a superior love, one more meaningful, more significant, and grander than any other. I didn’t feel that before Jacob, and I didn’t feel that after. But it is a singular love, because it is a love whose foundation is not physical attraction, or pleasure, or intellect, but fear. You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield. And let me tell you two other things I learned. The first is that it doesn’t matter how old that child is, or when or how he became yours. Once you decide to think of someone as your child, something changes, and everything you have previously enjoyed about them, everything you have previously felt for them, is preceded first by that fear. It’s not biological; it’s something extra-biological, less a determination to ensure the survival of one’s genetic code, and more a desire to prove oneself inviolable to the universe’s feints and challenges, to triumph over the things that want to destroy what’s yours. The second thing is this: when your child dies, you feel everything you’d expect to feel, feelings so well-documented by so many others that I won’t even bother to list them here, except to say that everything that’s written about mourning is all the same, and it’s all the same for a reason—because there is no real deviation from the text. Sometimes you feel more of one thing and less of another, and sometimes you feel them out of order, and sometimes you feel them for a longer time or a shorter time. But the sensations are always the same. But here’s what no one says—when it’s your child, a part of you, a very tiny but nonetheless unignorable part of you, also feels relief. Because finally, the moment you have been expecting, been dreading, been preparing yourself for since the day you became a parent, has come. Ah, you tell yourself, it’s arrived. Here it is. And after that, you have nothing to fear again.

You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield.

I'm angry because it's not socially acceptable to wear my onesie in public

The difference between dreamers and great ones is that the great ones can always perceive beyond their dark clouds of despair and struggles to see the rainbow of hope in their lives.

Don’t you ever reread a book you liked?” Once the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them; there were plenty of people who didn’t read for pleasure, let alone reread. But Tom smiled and shook his head. “I used to, when I was a tyke. But how can you read a book you’ve already read when you know there are all those other ones out there?” “An excellent argument, Mr. McLaury. I can only defend my position by saying that I use my old books as seasoning for the new ones—I sprinkle them lightly through my reading.

What if I didn’t want to have babies because I loved my job too much to compromise it, or because serious travel makes me feel in relation to the world in an utterly essential way? What if I’ve always liked the looks of my own life much better than those of the ones I saw around me? What if, given the option, I would prefer to accept an assignment to go trekking for a month in the kingdom of Bhutan than spend that same month folding onesies? What if I simply like dogs a whole lot better than babies? What if I have become sure that personal freedom is the thing I hold most dear?

Quick sidebar: It may seem like I’m a sexist twat who only sees women in terms of their looks, but I don’t think I treat women like they’re inferior. I notice what I notice. I’m not going to pretend I’m some New Age moron who sees all life as part of the same beautiful tapestry. The first thing I noticed about Maurice was that he’s black — and that’s despite him wearing a Batman onesie. Does that make me racist? I think it means my eyes work. Feel free to judge me how you want.

I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield. And

I'm twenty-four, it's a Friday night, and I'm waiting in for a take-out gyros and fries in my onesie. My life is just so exciting I can barely stand it.  

Doesn't she have, like, a zip-up adult onesie or something she can put on?

I squeeze into the bridal jumpsuit that the stylist begged me not to refer to as a onesie,

He's the only person who offered me a place to stay when my parents kicked me out at sixteen after they discovered my onesie stash.

You don’t know what to do. Because she’s not some blonde puck bunny named Kelsey who wants to marry him and have his 2.5 babies that she’ll dress in Gucci onesies.

we have a dozen guys in minion onesies staring at us.

Can we spend the next week like this? Naked, though.” I add, “Well, you naked. I like this onesie, my balls are super toasty.” “As long as your balls are toasty, obviously.

How was my day? It was a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was both lonely and never alone. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed. I was saturated with touch—desperate to get the baby off of me and the second I put her down I yearned to smell her sweet skin again. This day required more than I’m physically and emotionally capable of, while requiring nothing from my brain. I had thoughts today, ideas, real things to say and no one to hear them. I felt manic all day, alternating between love and fury. At least once an hour I looked at their faces and thought I might not survive the tenderness of my love for them. The next moment I was furious. I felt like a dormant volcano, steady on the outside but ready to explode and spew hot lava at any moment. And then I noticed that Amma’s foot doesn’t fit into her Onesie anymore, and I started to panic at the reminder that this will be over soon, that it’s fleeting—that this hardest time of my life is supposed to be the best time of my life. That this brutal time is also the most beautiful time. Am I enjoying it enough? Am I missing the best time of my life? Am I too tired to be properly in love? That fear and shame felt like adding a heavy, itchy blanket on top of all the hard. But I’m not complaining, so please don’t try to fix it. I wouldn’t have my day or my life any other way. I’m just saying—it’s a hell of a hard thing to explain—an entire day with lots of babies. It’s far too much and not even close to enough. But

But it is a singular love, because it is a love whose foundation is not physical attraction, or pleasure, or intellect, but fear. You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield. And let me tell you two other things I learned. The first is that it doesn’t matter how old that child is, or when or how he became yours. Once you decide to think of someone as your child, something changes, and everything you have previously enjoyed about them, everything you have previously felt for them, is preceded first by that fear. It’s not biological; it’s something extra-biological, less a determination to ensure the survival of one’s genetic code, and more a desire to prove oneself inviolable to the universe’s feints and challenges, to triumph over the things that want to destroy what’s yours. The second thing is this: when your child dies, you feel everything you’d expect to feel, feelings so well-documented by so many others that I won’t even bother to list them here, except to say that everything that’s written about mourning is all the same, and it’s all the same for a reason—because there is no real deviation from the text. Sometimes you feel more of one thing and less of another, and sometimes you feel them out of order, and sometimes you feel them for a longer time or a shorter time. But the sensations are always the same. But here’s what no one says—when it’s your child, a part of you, a very tiny but nonetheless unignorable part of you, also feels relief. Because finally, the moment you have been expecting, been dreading, been preparing yourself for since the day you became a parent, has come. Ah, you tell yourself, it’s arrived. Here it is. And after that, you have nothing to fear again.

In a windowless nook of a downtown Roanoke funeral parlor, not far from where Tess once roamed the streets, Patricia caressed the back of the scar, as if cupping a baby's head, and told her poet goodbye. It was January 2, Tess's birthday. She would have been twenty-nine. Patricia tucked the treasures of her daughter's life inside the vest--a picture of her boy and one of his cotton onesies that was Tess's favorite, some strands of Koda's hair, and a sand dollar.

I got a P-touch labeler and labeled everything: places for diapers, bibs, onesies, pants, socks, crib sheets, binkies, pack ’n’ play sheets, baby wipes, changing table covers . . . Everything has a place, and that place was going to have a goddamn label on it.

She had her shoes on now, and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder. In the opposite arm she cradled Andromeda, who was wearing both her Legolas Onesie and her Keebler booties. Which seemed wrong, you know—mixing two different kinds of elves like that. So now I knew Vicki was crazy.

I totally deserved this, I realized. I deserved to get captured in this shirt. I was roped in like a calf. Stupid. So stupid. Just because it was on sale, I had to try on a baby shirt. This was so completely my fault. Maybe I should go to Baby Gap tomorrow and try to get into some Onesies or a romper. What was I thinking? Really?

squeeze into the bridal jumpsuit that the stylist begged me not to refer to as a onesie, and then my twin brother comes to retrieve me. “You look stunning,” Owen says flatly, distrustfully, squinting at me like I’m a fake ten-dollar bill. “It was a team effort.” He gestures for me to follow him. “I hope they vaccinated you for rabies while they were at it.

Sophia!” He looks horrified. “I’m not suggesting that you shouldn’t eat dessert. You don’t need a spoon because I was going to feed you.” Oh. “I have an arse,” I blurt out. His grins. “I noticed. Officially, men love arses. And I think I can speak for all men—at least all the British ones—I am their future king, you know. Unofficially…I can’t wait to get my hands on that beautiful round bum of yours.

The hipster contingent has taken over a lot of the commercial streets, and now you can't go two blocks without running into some up-its-own-ass artisanal shop with a name that's just two random nouns thrown together with an ampersand. Satchel & Dove. Twig & Petal. Those are the places where you find out there's such a thing as boutique tarragon mayonnaise and that a baby onesie can legitimately cost sixty dollars. (p.169)

He’s probably used to women throwing themselves at him or curling around his massive frame like a sloth in its favorite tree.  I’m closer to a sloth than I am a stripper. Give me a cozy pair of fuzzy pajamas or a onesie instead of a thong and deathtrap platform heels any night of the week. If I had to choose a vice, it would be sloth. Not lust. Unless the lusting is after cake.  Or Ryan Reynolds.  Or Ryan Reynolds with cake.

I’m just getting to the good stuff (Cressida must seduce Nigel to gain access to the spy codes!) when Josh walks out of his house to get the mail. He sees me too; he lifts his hand like he’s just going to wave and not come over, but then he does. “Hey, nice onesie,” he says as he makes his way across the driveway. It’s faded light blue with sunflowers and it ties around the neck. I got it from the vintage store, 75 percent off. And it’s not a onesie. “This is a sunsuit,” I tell him, going back to my book. I try to subtly hide the cover with my hand. The last thing I need is Josh giving me a hard time for reading a trashy book when I’m just trying to enjoy a relaxing afternoon. I can feel him looking at me, his arms crossed, waiting. I look up. “What?” “Wanna see a movie tonight at the Bess? There’s a Pixar movie playing. We can take Kitty.” “Sure, text me when you want to head over,” I say, turning the page of my book. Nigel is unbuttoning Cressida’s blouse and she’s wondering when the sleeping pill she slipped in his Merlot will kick in, while simultaneously hoping it won’t kick in too soon, because Nigel is actually quite a good kisser. Josh reaches down and tries to get a closer look at my book. I slap his hand away, but not before he reads out loud, “Cressida’s heart raced as Nigel moved his hand along her stockinged thigh.” Josh cracks up. “What the heck are you reading?” My cheeks are burning. “Oh, be quiet.” Chuckling, Josh backs away. “I’ll leave you to Cressida and Noel then.” To his back, I call out, “For your information, it’s Nigel!

Did Mama leave you all alone in here?" I picked her up out of bed and rubbed her back for a minute while she hiccuped. "Daddy's here," I murmured against her bald head, rocking her from side to side. "Let's get that wet diaper off you." I laid her on the bed and grabbed a diaper from the top of Kate's dresser, talking the whole time. "I don't know what your mommy was thinking, leaving my princess in here all alone," I crooned, my voice somehow keeping Iris calm. "She's outside with your brothers and sister and Daddy's friend Miles. He's a jackass. You stay away from him, okay?" I smiled as Iris froze, like she was listening intently. "Daddy was not very nice," I said, pulling her little pants down her legs and unbuttoning her onesie. "I wasn't even there when you were born, and I'm really sorry about that. But your mama came home with me anyway, so that means there's a chance, right? As long as Miles keeps his you-know-what in this pants." Iris lifted her hand to her face and tried really hard to get it to her mouth, her eyes unfocused as I babbled. "You're doing so good, princess. Look at you, not even crying while I change you. Such a big girl." I finished re-dressing her and pulled her to my chest. "You think your mama could love me again?" I asked, kissing her little cheek. "Probably not, huh? We'll just have to keep working at it so you can live with Daddy forever.

How was my day? It was a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was both lonely and never alone. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed. I was saturated with touch—desperate to get the baby off of me and the second I put her down I yearned to smell her sweet skin again. This day required more than I’m physically and emotionally capable of, while requiring nothing from my brain. I had thoughts today, ideas, real things to say and no one to hear them. I felt manic all day, alternating between love and fury. At least once an hour I looked at their faces and thought I might not survive the tenderness of my love for them. The next moment I was furious. I felt like a dormant volcano, steady on the outside but ready to explode and spew hot lava at any moment. And then I noticed that Amma’s foot doesn’t fit into her Onesie anymore, and I started to panic at the reminder that this will be over soon, that it’s fleeting—that this hardest time of my life is supposed to be the best time of my life. That this brutal time is also the most beautiful time. Am I enjoying it enough? Am I missing the best time of my life? Am I too tired to be properly in love? That fear and shame felt like adding a heavy, itchy blanket on top of all the hard. But I’m not complaining, so please don’t try to fix it. I wouldn’t have my day or my life any other way. I’m just saying—it’s a hell of a hard thing to explain—an entire day with lots of babies. It’s far too much and not even close to enough.

spend more time comforting and hugging infant girls and more time watching infant boys play by themselves.22 Other cultural messages are more blatant. Gymboree once sold onesies proclaiming “Smart like Daddy” for boys and “Pretty like Mommy” for girls.23 The same year, J. C. Penney marketed a T-shirt to teenage girls that bragged, “I’m too pretty to do homework so my brother has to do it for me.”24 These things did not happen in 1951. They happened in 2011. Even worse, the messages sent to girls can move beyond encouraging superficial traits and veer into explicitly discouraging leadership. When a girl tries to lead, she is often labeled bossy. Boys are seldom called bossy because a boy taking the role of a boss does not surprise or offend. As someone who was called this for much of my childhood, I know that it is not a compliment. The stories of my childhood bossiness are told (and retold) with great amusement. Apparently, when I was in elementary school, I taught my younger siblings, David and Michelle, to follow me around, listen to my monologues, and scream the word “Right!” when I concluded. I was the eldest of the neighborhood children and allegedly spent my time organizing shows that I could direct and clubs that I could run. People laugh at these accounts, but to this day I always feel slightly ashamed of my behavior

Of course, problems come in threes, or at least twos. Rarely onesies. Major Truman Preston could hear the First Family screaming at each other and could care less. What worried him was that the White House was in lockdown, the president seemed a bit off his rocker, and he couldn’t get an outside line on his Department of Defense–issue cell phone. He needed to check in with his supervisor at the Pentagon, but neither cell nor landlines were working. So he sat on the second floor of the Residence, tucked away in a corner, a position he was more than used to, and held the football on his lap. Forty-five pounds of deadweight, with the emphasis on the dead. The surface of the case was dinged and battered and bruised from years of traveling. The damn case was older than he was. You’d think someone would have made the decision to swap the old thing out for a new case. Although the interior was updated with the latest electronics, never the outside. Tradition mattered, even in apparently trivial ways. Despite the turmoil raging and the lack of communication, Preston was his usual calm self

Try this on. What if I didn’t want to have babies because I loved my job too much to compromise it, or because serious travel makes me feel in relation to the world in an utterly essential way? What if I’ve always liked the looks of my own life much better than those of the ones I saw around me? What if, given the option, I would prefer to accept an assignment to go trekking for a month in the kingdom of Bhutan than spend that same month folding onesies? What if I simply like dogs a whole lot better than babies? What if I have become sure that personal freedom is the thing I hold most dear? Some of my closest friends love being mothers, live, to a certain extent, to be mothers. It has been the single most challenging and rewarding endeavor of their lives. Others of my friends don’t like it that much, thought they would like it better than they do, are counting the days till the last kid goes off to college so they can turn their attention to their own dreams. A few friends pretend to love it, but everyone within twelve square miles can hear them grinding their teeth. Still others pretend motherhood is the world’s biggest hassle and yet you can tell they love it deep down. And

A flight suit. ’Cause you’re a big bad pilot, right? You fell out of your helicopter. Now unzip your onesie so you don’t bleed to death.

The engine that drives self-justification, the energy that produces the need to justify our actions and decisions—especially the wrong ones—is the unpleasant feeling that Festinger called “cognitive dissonance.” Cognitive dissonance is a state of tension that occurs when a person holds two cognitions (ideas, attitudes, beliefs, opinions) that are psychologically inconsistent with each other, such as “Smoking is a dumb thing to do because it could kill me” and “I smoke two packs a day.

Problem?" Riggs asked. "You mean other than my life sucks and I'm wearing a unicorn onesie?

If the most powerful set of equipment ever was a onesie, he would have put it on without hesitation.

Oh god, I was going to have to seem at least half normal. I wouldn’t be able to shuffle around in nothing but my blanket onesie, standing in front of the open fridge in the wee hours, shovelling whatever I could find into my mouth, my brain hazy and loose from shade.

Oh fuck, this was it. The big dramatic scene in every human romcom, the heartfelt confession where they declared their undying love for each other. I wasn’t prepared! There was sweet and sour sauce on the front of my onesie, for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t wearing any pants!

Problem?” Riggs asked. “You mean other than my life sucks and I’m wearing a unicorn onesie?

I’d walked around towns and even the capital while in my bear onesie since coming to this world, but I still wasn’t used to people looking at me. It was still super embarrassing. I kind of felt like that sense of embarrassment was what still made me a girl. It was kinda my last bit of femininity, so I couldn’t just throw it out the window.

I already thought you really don’t follow any rules of common sense,” said Gran, “but I didn’t realize you were this absurd.” “I already knew that,” said Cliff. “Same here,” said Ellelaura. Even Zelef and Botts were nodding along. Huh? Weird? But…I wasn’t even wearing the bear onesie, right? So, you know. Normal. Right? I looked at the three girls, as if to silently ask them, but they didn’t say anything. C’mon, guys, you’re going to make the bear cry!

Who, me? He said it like I was a detective who always ran into murders wherever she went, or an anime protagonist who’s always stirring up chains of battles with powerful baddies. Nah, I was just your average fifteen-year-old girl in a bear onesie who’d been summoned to this other world by a god. The only trouble I’d stirred up was the tunnel to Mileela and the 10,000 monsters and the stuff at Misa’s birthday party when I’d gone to beat the crap out of people! Which, uh…hmm. Okay, considering how little time I’d actually been here, when you think about it, maybe that did count for a lot of incidents. Now I just felt guilty.

Everyone loves you, so of course they want to emulate you, Yuna. Just let them,” she told me, but my instincts told me that this was a line I couldn’t let them cross. If I just let it be, I could be patient zero of a bear onesie apocalypse.

With my report to the Adventurer Guild turned in, I headed to Ellelaura’s estate. When I got there, Fina came running over wearing these lovely clothes. “I’m back, Fina.” “Yunaaaaa!” She latched onto my belly. I caught her against my paunch—that is, the bear onesie’s paunch. Not mine. I’m not the bear. “Fina, you look so cute.” She was wearing these cutesy, frilly clothes. She kind of looked like a little well-to-do lady. It was great. “Not nearly as cute as your bear clothes, Yuna. Besides,” she added, “Lady Ellelaura forced me to wear this!

Yeah, who’d assume that a D-rank adventurer could’ve slayed 10,000 monsters? Add in the fact that said adventurer is a girl in a bear onesie, and…

What fucking devious trickery is this, Red?” I growl. “It’s my onesie,” she giggles. “But how do I get into it?” I ask her as my brothers laugh—like this is funny. “It’s a concealed zipper, see?” “I don’t like it,” I say with a shake of my head. “It’s impenetrable.” “It’s just for Christmas,” she laughs. “I still don’t like it. I like my hands on your skin.” “I like your hands on my skin too,” she purrs.

I panicked. “James!” I cried. “If you died, I’d be single. I’d be a single mom. What the hell would I do for a living? Become a waitress? I can’t be a single mom waitress! I’m not Rosie Perez.” I paced around the room, then went over to the couch, where I began frantically folding tiny baby Onesies. But they were all so tiny and easy to fold that I finished immediately, and that left me with nothing else to focus on, and I started in on James again. “I can’t work any kind of job that involves a schedule. And my high school diploma is only good for entry into two professions—waitress or janitor. How good is your life insurance?” “I don’t know,” he said nonchalantly.

No,” he said. “Go.” He snapped the last snap of Maya’s onesie and lifted her by her underarms, setting her on her freshly dry butt in her crib. Then he took me by both shoulders. “I’ll take tomorrow off work. I’ll call it in as a family emergency. I’ll put the baby’s car seat in my car, and Maya and I will drive out to Bakersfield and pick up your mom.

She unzipped her oversized flannel onesie, created especially for women not interested in finding a man, and tossed it on the bed.

There's a value in that space - rent, overhead, staffing costs, etc. - that has to be paid back by a certain number of inventory turns per month. In other words, the onesies and twosies waste space. However, when that space doesn't cost anything, suddenly you can look at those infrequent sellers again, and they begin to have value. This was the insight that led to Amazon, Netflix, and all the other companies I was talking to.

For the first time I realized I could be more than a crawling little pile of bones and flesh in a onesie.

Dex's mother knew she should be afraid for her daughter. This, she'd been told, was the tragedy of being a girl. To live in fear–it was the fate of any parent, maybe, but the special provenance of a mother to a daughter, one woman raising another, knowing too well what could happen. This was what lurked inside the luckiest delivery rooms, the ones whose balloons screamed It's a girl!: pink cigars and flowered onesies and fear.

He tips his glass and drinks. So does Matt. And everyone in the crowd. Except me. “What’s wrong?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I say. I motion my mother forward, and she puts a box in my hands. It’s small, but it’s weighty at the same time. “I have a present for you.” “I thought our honeymoon was our present to each other,” he reminds me with a scowl. We’re leaving for the Carolina coast for a week with the kids tonight. I can’t wait. I motion for him to take my package. “The vacation is our gift. This is just extra.” I blink back the tears that are already forming in my eyes. He makes a face and opens up the box. He looks inside and then gets confused. He pulls the tiny little item out of the box. It’s a onesie that has tattoo designs all over it, and on the back, it has the name Reed. “What’s this?” he asks, confused. Then his eyes grow wide. Friday gasps when she realizes what’s going on, and the rest of the crowd rumbles and fidgets. “Is this…?” he asks. He stops, because he’s choked with emotion. “Yes,” I say. Tears roll down my face, and I don’t care. I lean close to him. “You knocked me up.” He takes me in his arms and pulls me close, and a sob rolls through him. “Are you serious?” “Completely serious, Matt,” I say. “But wait.” I look down and shake the onesie out. A second one falls out, and Matt catches it in the air. “Two?” he asks. I nod, so broken by his reaction that I can’t speak. “Two tiny little heartbeats,” I say as soon as I can. “Holy fuck,” he breathes into my ear. He squeezes me so tightly that I chirp. “I love you so fucking much,” he says to me. He takes a second to breathe me in and compose himself, then he drops to his knees and lays his forehead on my belly. He says something quietly to his unborn children, and I’m not even sure what it was, but I do know it was between him and them. Or him and God. I’m not sure which. Then he stands and looks up at the crowd. Half of them are as teary-eyed as we are. “Do you know what this means?” he asks our friends and family. They rumble, but he can’t hear one voice over another. He points to Logan. “This means my sperm are better swimmers than yours, little brother!” he says. He signs while he talks, and Logan flips him off. But he’s laughing. He wraps his arms around Emily and lays his hands on the small swell of her belly. I slap his shoulder. “What if it’s my eggs that are amazing and not your sperm?” “What if it’s just us?” he asks quietly, and he kisses me. “Us together.” “I told you I believe in miracles, Matt,” I say when I can finally lift my head. “You’re my miracle,” he says. “You. Just you.

In brief, nonnominal ultimate emptiness-the actual object of the wisdom in the meditative equipoise of noble ones-is beyond either withstanding or not withstanding analysis. In itself, it is inexpressible. On the other hand, the nominal emptiness in the form of a nonimplicative negation that is the object of the worldly valid cognition of a reasoning consciousness'" definitely cannot withstand analysis.

Which is fine, because even the most important ones—I love you. I’m sorry. Forgive me? I’m here—are only stand-ins for what you can say better without talking at all.

I don't like shopping. In movies that depict a futuristic dystopia, people tend to wear uniforms in a single colour, usually a metallic onesie with a high neck and gender-neutral panelling in the front. I am fine with this. I look great in silver and gold.

I just wish they’d remember I’m thirty-two and not fifteen.” Colin looked down at her feet, and his lips twitched. She followed his gaze. She had on a cozy red plaid onesie with fake fur lining the hood and reindeer slippers on her feet. She shrugged, smiling up at him. “What can I say? I love Christmas.

Goodnight, weirdo. I’m going to bed. Early bird gets the worm, you know. Might plan myself a solo hiking trip to Davis Creek. No boys allowed unless they have scales and a breeding kink.”  “Of all the times to forget my dinosaur onesie at home.

I don’t know how we’re even having this conversation right now. How can I possibly take you seriously in that bright yellow onesie?” He glances down as if I’ve surprised him, letting out a laugh. Like he got so lost in our conversation he forgot where he was, what he’s wearing. I think I did too for a moment. “You’re right. I’m completely ridiculous. Get over here, Jessie. I think it’s time I let you catch me.

I have never been one of those people—I know you aren't, either—who feels that the love one has for a child is somehow a superior love, one more meaningful, more significant, and grander than any other. I didn't feel that before Jacob, and I didn't feel that after. But it is a singular love, because it is a love whose foundation is not physical attraction, or pleasure, or intellect, but fear. You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent. Every day, your first thought is not “I love him” but “How is he?” The world, overnight, rearranges itself into an obstacle course of terrors. I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life. It seemed as improbable as the survival of one of those late-spring butterflies—you know, those little white ones—I sometimes saw wobbling through the air, always just millimeters away from smacking itself against a windshield. And let me tell you two other things I learned. The first is that it doesn't matter how old that child is, or when or how he became yours. Once you decide to think of someone as your child, something changes, and everything you have previously enjoyed about them, everything you have previously felt for them, is preceded first by that fear. It's not biological; it's something extra-biological, less a determination to ensure the survival of one's genetic code, and more a desire to prove oneself inviolable to the universe's feints and challenges, to triumph over the things that want to destroy what's yours. The second thing is this: when your child dies, you feel everything you'd expect to feel, feelings so well-documented by so many others that I won't even bother to list them here, except to say that everything that's written about mourning is all the same, and it's all the same for a reason—because there is no real deviation from the text. Sometimes you feel more of one thing and less of another, and sometimes you feel them out of order, and sometimes you feel them for a longer time or a shorter time. But the sensations are always the same. But here's what no one says—when it's your child, a part of you, a very tiny but nonetheless unignorable part of you, also feels relief. Because finally, the moment you have been expecting, been dreading, been preparing yourself for since the day you became a parent, has come. Ah, you tell yourself, it's arrived. Here it is. And after that, you have nothing to fear again.

Not even this entire can of dry shampoo on my head can save me from the dark hole of depression I’ve managed to dive into, headfirst, as I stare at my bedroom wall eating fun-size Snickers bars in an X-Files onesie.

Watching Nathan being the charming and caring man that he is, watching my parents learn that, too, has been a dream. Not to mention, watching him stuff his six-foot-four frame in a onesie has been the highlight of my year.

Can we spend the next week like this? Naked, though.” I add, “Well, you naked. I like this onesie, my balls are super toasty.” “As long as your balls are toasty, obviously.

Tipsy is fine, tipsy is fun, tipsy means that my camera roll is full of candid pictures of Nathan strutting around his reindeer onesie and I can’t stop giggling.

Well, you all know how these things go, nine months and copious amounts of hot croissants later, there I was, born at New York Hospital, a solid thirteen pounds, eight ounces. Just kidding. I was a svelte seven pounds, thirteen ounces and have been actively working to get back to my birth weight ever since. All the nurses couldn’t stop talking about how lean I looked in a onesie, trust me.

Since the very first moment she had laid eyes on him, Lorna Connaught had loved Dante with a hot fierceness that both excited and shamed her. The excitement came from the knowledge that, from then until the day she died, he would always be hers. Her shame came from the realization that she’d never felt such an achingly deep love like that before. Not even for her husband, Matthew.

Barry lay in his bed, fuming. He’d gone straight to his room, without cleaning his teeth or anything, and slammed the door. But it had just come back at him as his door didn’t really shut properly unless you closed it carefully, jiggling the handle up as you did it. So he’d had to do that after his slam, which felt completely at odds with a show of rage. He lay there in his onesie – a zebra one, with ears and a tail, which was too big for him because it had been passed down from Lukas – and stared at his room. His head

He has a non-toxic rainbow stamp on his chubby little cheek, and Jess made him the most adorable onesie that says, My parents went queer and all I got was this onesie.

Also, for some reason, I felt like everyone was looking at me. Maybe it’s because I’m an outsider? “Your clothes sure do stand out, Yuna.” Oh, right. I was wearing a bear onesie.

That never could have happened if he hadn’t been a guy. For one, girls aren’t allowed to wear onesies to school. They’re deemed immodest. Because, you know, distracting female bodies pose a huge educational barrier for the poor boys. And if a girl had done that zany dance, either it’d have been sexualized or it’d have been stupid, depending on the girl. “She’s hot,” people would say. Or “She’s weird.” That morning, leaving Town Meeting, everyone was jostling one another, still in high spirits. “Andy is so out there.” Voices dripping with admiration. “He’s such a…” They couldn’t even finish. No words. Shake head. Smile, smile, smile. What they meant, of course, was this: Andy Monroe is so, so freaking cool. Right after that dance—still in the onesie!—he tapped the mike and said, “Next announcement. The Service Club is hosting a winter-coat drive on behalf of the Coalition for the Homeless.” A girl wouldn’t be allowed to bridge both worlds, the silly and the sober. To be taken seriously, she’d have to act serious, and her seriousness would make her unelectable—just as a lack of seriousness would. It was a quintessential catch-22, and we couldn’t even call it out, because it sounded like an excuse. Well, I could be that cool, if I were a guy…. We couldn’t say it, but we felt it. We felt it as surely as we felt the weight of our bodies, because, like gravity, it was a truth about how it worked, this world we knew. Girls didn’t even consider running for Chawton School chairman because, as girls, we knew, we knew deep in our bones, that we would always lose.

Imagining the adventurers and townspeople of the capital wearing onesies like me—and onesies flooding the capital in general—was giving me psychic damage. A sea of onesie-wearers joining me would be mortifying. If that ever happened, it’d spell the end of human fashion for all of history.

As he started the engine and pulled out on to Downchurch Road, strains of Rod Stewart drifted from the open window of the house, and he pictured Karen swaying to the music behind the hull-shaped bar, drunk and alone, the zip on her onesie fighting a losing battle.

Sometimes, God gives us what we need, not what we expect.

Nothing good happened after the teeth got involved. It was the grandmother equivalent of a girl taking off her earrings before a fight.

The baby had an orange plastic baby spoon, and on the mixer for her food there was an orange splash cover, and an orange implement for lifting the basket of steamed food safely out. All these items were purchased fairly thoughtlessly, just in searching for “plain.” Then I noticed the same orange as the trim accent color on the blue-and-white striped onesie she had received at birth and was finally growing into, and the same orange for the safety guard case around the iPhone 4 without Siri which her mother had bought post-Siri for $69.95 and had then on the first day of ownership cracked the screen of and so had unthinkingly chosen the accent color orange for the “protector.” It eventually began to be difficult to not be bothered by how nice and how orange the baby’s objects were. And yet also it was difficult to not want to surround the baby with objects that had been deemed, by my wedge of the zeitgeist, nice. As if taste culture could keep the baby safe. Which in some ways it could: people would subconsciously recognize that the baby belonged to the class of people to whom good things come easily, and so they would subconsciously continue to easily hand over to her the good things, like interesting jobs and educational opportunities and appealing mates, that would seem the baby’s natural birthright, though of course this was an illusion. Something like that. It was an evil norm, but, again, one that it was difficult to not want to work in favor of rather than against one’s own child. I would say you can see where this is going, but I feel it insufficiently gets at how much orange was arriving into the home, and how much warmth and approval these orange objects were received with by the well-educated fortunate people who encountered them. (Notably, my mother was charmed by none of it.)

Hearing the anecdote, it’s easy to assume that Target’s algorithms are infallible—that everybody receiving coupons for onesies and wet wipes is pregnant. But nobody ever claimed that it was true.

Parents worry when they hear the San Francisco-based developmental psychologist Diane Ehrensaft claim that a one-year-old ‘assigned male’ baby who unsnaps a onesie and waves it in a particular way is in fact giving a ‘pre-verbal communication about gender’.

Little Baby Fashion - Motheringo Stock up your babies’ wardrobes with tons of onesies. Aiding in the mobility of the babies and the unimaginable frequency with which babies spoil their clothes, you need to focus on convenience, above all. Depending on the weather, add a layer of the adorable little romper, available in a large variety. High in utility, they are adept at keeping your child composed under all weather conditions. You can never stop aweing on the perfectly coordinated clothing sets, often accompanied by the lovesome headbands, booties, and bowties. These sets make a perfect apparel for daily wear, keeping the baby comfortable yet stylishly dressed.

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The “who” question does not seek answers from God as much as it seeks God himself. The one who asks who seeks to grow in deeper understanding of who God is and who we are, because when we’re suffering, what we need more than answers—even helpful, biblical ones—is God and an assurance of our identity in Christ.