October 27, 2007
It's official. I'm legally changing my name. To Amy McSweatpants. I've been considering this shift for almost two-and-a-half years, but yesterday I decided to file the paperwork.
Friday morning I showed up at my babysitting job around eight o'clock. As soon as I stepped inside the front door, Garfield's* mom held up a very attractive sweatsuit. It was bright red, sized 2T, and bore the logo of the Canadian store Roots.
She was like, "Do you want this sweatsuit? Garfield got it for his birthday, but it's way too big."
OF COURSE I wanted the sweatsuit. Actually, I wanted to rip it out of her grubby little hands, stuff it into the deepest corner of my backpack, and peel out of her driveway...you know, just in case she changed her mind.
But I resisted my primal urge and politely replied, "Wow, it's great! Don't you want to hang on to it? Garfield will grow into it."
"No, no. That's ok. We want James to have it."
I followed that up with another "oh no, I couldn't possibly" kind of comment (just to maintain my calm n' cool image), and I watched her face fall into a look of disappointment. She let out a quick, deep breath and carefully replied, "Well, the thing is, Garfield doesn't really wear sweatsuits. But you guys? You are a sweatsuit family."
Ok friendly readers, I want you to reread that last line.
Now read it again.
We've not been labeled as a vacationing family, or an adventurous family, or a fun-loving family. We weren't called a game-playing family or a photogenic family. Hell, we weren't even recognized as a churchy family....
The Lawsons are a sweatsuit family. How flattering.
As I accepted the generous
donation gift from my boss, my thoughts spiraled off..."Why would she think that? How did we become a sweatsuit family?"
But my frantic thought pattern was quickly interrupted by James tugging at my pant leg. I immediately shifted my attention to my kid, because I really didn't want him to accidentally pull my britches down. That's not hard to do, considering the fact that my sweatpants have a worn-out elastic waistband.
Yes, I was wearing sweatpants. A five-year-old gray pair from my college bookstore.
And James? He was vying for my attention because he had spilled orange juice on his lap. And he wanted me to sop up the mess before it ruined a perfectly good pair of--yes, you guessed it--sweatpants. He was sporting a pair, too.
And that, my dear friends, is why I'm changing my name to Amy B. McSweatpants.
*Remember, names have been changed to protect the innocent.