I think I have one of those kids who is extra sensitive to refined sugar. Really, that's just a nice way of saying I have one of those kids who acts like the spawn of a depressed Richard Simmons and Rambo at the mere sight of a gum drop. You know--kind of weepy, a little bit off-the-wall, and just plain violent.
I wish I could say that I'm surprised by this behavior, but unfortunately, I'm not. I know just where he gets it from--his mother. When I was a child, two drops of orange soda or one sniff of an Oreo cookie would send me into a tailspin. I'd turn from the funny-looking-girl-with-the bowl-cut-and-the-extra-wide-gap-in-her-teeth to the nasty-little-gremlin-child-with-the bucket-on-her-head in two seconds flat.
Unfortunately, the sugar tirades are one of my clearest childhood memories--the urge to rip my own hair out by the root, the desire to kick the back of the driver seat until it came loose from the floor bolts, and of course, the overwhelming need to karate chop my sister in the kidneys until she screamed for mercy and surrendered whatever Barbie she had in her possession at that moment. Actually, now that I think about it, the whole scene was very, very similar to my PMS symptoms as of late. And let me tell you, Katy still can't handle my lethal karate chops.
I also remember the sweet relief that I gained from my bucket. It was big, it was red, and I'm quite sure that it wasn't designed to be worn on the head. But that sand bucket--oooohhhh that sand bucket--it was the only thing on this planet that could help me gain my composure. When I'd feel a "moment" coming on, I would take that pail, put it on my head, use the handle as my chin strap, admire the red plasticy glow, and listen to the muffled sound of phrases like "what's wrong with her?"
And my poor, sweet mother would drive around town with her bucket-child strapped securely into the backseat. Can you imagine the looks she got? The comments? The whispers? But my mom was the wise one--she knew that it was far better to push a child through the grocery store with a sand pail on her head, than it was to watch that four year old get hauled off to jail for disturbing the peace...or disorderly conduct...or kicking a children's librarian in the shins.
I also remember using the bucket on long car trips. One time, when I was about four or five years old, we were making the four hour road trip to a cottage on Cape Cod. And somehow, I managed to finagle an orange soda out of my father at a road side vending machine. Holy crap people, once we were back on the road, that Ford Escort could barely contain me. It was totally driving down the Mass Pike on its back two wheels as I pinned my sister to the maroon vinyl seat and plucked out her eyelashes one by one. And not a moment too soon, my mother whipped that red bucket out from under the seat, tossed it onto my head, and peace was restored to the Earth.
When we arrived at the beach house that afternoon, my mom opened the back door of the car, gently knocked on my bucket, and was like, "We're here, Amy. Would you like to take that sand pail off of your head and use it at the beach?"
I was like, "No." And I think I stayed in the backseat of the station wagon until bedtime.
I was a lovely child. And now, I'm a lovely adult--who often has the urge to stick my head in the nearest picnic basket, or Fry-Daddy, or cement mixer at the first sign of stress.
Like yesterday for example, after James ate a sugar cookie with multicolored sprinkles from the food court at the mall, I tried to fit my head into my purse. Unfortunately, it was too small.
Item 1. An Explanation
Yes, that's an advertisement in the right hand column of my blog. So why did I do it? Why did I sell out to the BlogHer ad network? Because it will bring in enough cash to cover my car payment every month. That's all there is to it.
Item 2. Some Relationship Advice
When your toddler goes to bed before 7, your spouse gets home around 7:15, and the apartment is spotless and clean, it could be a good night for some romance.
I'd suggest a quiet dinner, a fire in the fireplace, champagne glasses filled with purple KoolAid, and a new lovetastic play list on your iPod.
Just be sure to double check that the song "Baby Got Back" by Sir MixaLot doesn't inadvertently make it onto the play list somewhere between "Angel" and "Crash into Me." Because if it did, that could make for a very awkward moment.
But that's just a guess, because it's never happened to me before. Really, it hasn't.
Item 3. A Complaint
I have to leave for work now. Have a great day, everyone!
November 27, 2007
James has a new trick in his repertoire. It's hanging--as in hanging from monkey bars, hanging from towel bars, and unfortunately, hanging from my ponytail.
Trust me, I know what you're thinking..."My two-and-a-half-year-old has been hanging for months."
Sure, maybe your kid has been able to support his own body weight for weeks and weeks, but I can guarantee that your child hasn't inherited the terrible combination of my upper-body strength and my cinder-blockish body density. I swear, if I ever witness James doing chin-ups in phys ed class, I will faint on the spot and choke on my own spittle. His genetic disposition for chin-up ability really is that bad.
This afternoon, I had the wild idea of dress shopping. You see, in three weeks, Jared and I will attend his HOLY CRAP, I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M ACTUALLY DOCTOR LAWSON banquet--at least that's what I've been calling it. It's an evening affair, on the forty-seventh floor of a downtown skyscraper, and it most definitely requires some type of stylish formal wear.
After four stops at four different shopping centers, and seven thousand trips hundreds of different fitting room, I finally found my dress--and let me tell you, it's fabulous. The only accessory that this gown needs is one-hundred-and-fifty-pounds of Amy B. Lawson.
As I walked back to the parking lot, I held the dress in my right hand, and James's hand in my left. We cautiously crossed the street, and when we arrived at the car, I knelt down to James's level, looked him bang in the eye, and said, "You stand right here. Mommy has to hang her dress, and then I'll get you into your car seat. This is a busy parking lot, so DO NOT MOVE."
As I leaned into the passenger side door of my Toyota wagon, I was startled when the alarm on the car parked next to mine began to sound. Approximately one seventeenth of a second after the alarm went off, I heard James beckoning. "Moyee," he said, "Yook at me! Yook at me!"
So I swallowed hard, and turned slowly--afraid of what I might find. And sure enough, there was my son, preforming his brand new trick from the side view mirror of a shiny, black Mercedes Benz. His fingers were desperately clenching the fiberglass, his tongue was hanging from the side of his mouth, and his feet were lifted about two inches above the parking lot asphalt.
"I hangeng," he proudly panted, as the siren wailed in the background.
"Oh @#$% James," I said, as I interrupted the stunt. "We don't hang from luxery vehicles! Now get in the car!" He was strapped safely into his five point harness within three nano-seconds, and we were one the road without so much as a witness.
Looking back on the whole experience, I've got to admit that I'm glad he chose a Mercedes. I'm really not sure that the side view mirror on a Nissan or a Ford could have withstood my child's body weight.
I asked for a smile, and I got this:
Happy Thanksgiving, troops. I'm quickly recovering from yesterday's illness (high temperature of 103--can you believe that?!), and I'm holding out hope that I'll be able to eat some Thanksgiving food by later this afternoon.
Thank goodness, because I really do love this holiday. In fact, it's my favorite. I enjoy Thanksgiving because it's not as commercialized the other major days--no bunnies, no presents, no bottle rockets. Thanksgiving focuses on the truly important things in life--like family, a parade featuring people dressed as cinnamon rolls, gratitude, food, and gratitude for food.
That's why every year on this special day, I start my morning prayer by saying something like:
Dear Lord, it's me Amy. Today I'm especially grateful for The Olive Garden, The Cracker Barrel, double Cool-Whip coupons, the Wendy's 99-cent Super Value Menu, Krispy Kreme donuts, The State Fair of Texas...and so on and so forth.
You see, on normal days, I'll only include two or three of my favorite eateries in my daily supplication.
I'm just so glad to be feeling better, because I really don't want to miss this meal--mostly because of my pure love of gravy. If it were socially acceptable, I would forgo the sparkling cider and drink a whole cup of gravy straight out of my Flintstones mug. Then, when dessert time rolled around, I would take the gravy boat--my favorite piece of china--and hug it tightly against my chest. Once I had shown they turkey juice some adequate lovin', I'd douse the daylights out of my pumpkin pie, and eat it all up without the help of a fork. Seriously folks, that thought alone leaves me drooling like a teething pit-bull puppy.
**Side Note: I totally don't care if you think I'm disgusting. I'm quite sure that I could find several unappetizing things that you dream about, too.**
Now, in the spirit of this most lovely holiday, I'd like to share a list of things that I am thankful for:
1. I am thankful that God decided to give my child a course & curly afro instead of limp, lifeless, silky hair.
2. I am thankful that I am no longer boofing through the night.
3. I am thankful for my Uncle Rich, who taught me that it is quite possible to fit eight different desserts onto one plate at the same time. (hint: the key is opting out of the sad little dessert plates, and reusing your full-sized dinner plate--friggin' brilliant!)
4. I am thankful for my 1989 Blazer because it's sleek, it's beautiful, and if the mood ever strikes me, I'm pretty sure that I could run over your car/RV/boat/house with very little effort.
5. I'm thankful to outweigh my husband.
7. I'm thankful to live in a bright-yellow, stucco building that bears a striking resemblance to a Nike shoe box. I never thought that a girl like me would have this type of opportunity.
8. I'm thankful for windows and doors and they way they open and close. Seriously guys, have you ever stopped to think about that?
9. I'm thankful for deep-fried meats, cheeses, vegetables, and desserts.
10. And finally, I'm thankful for the cleaning lady who I plan to hire as soon as we have a half-decent income. Who ever you are...where ever you are...you are my heart song, and I love you already.
Happy eating everyone! What are you thankful for on this glorious, parade-filled day?
This is what happens when your skinny, persuasive, and very boisterous friend talks you into giving up your user name and password. You get your first guest poster, whether you like it or not.
I have no idea what the word "rupe" means--so obviously, I did not write this little story-ette.
So, without any further hesitation, here is a post by my dear friend Catherine:
Today I show up at Amy's house to add to the fragrant aroma cocktail. Jared is changed James who no longer is constipated. Amy is vegging on the couch and stewing in the stale remnants of rupe. Catherine is burping sweet potato heaven into the air. Grace is laying on the floor farting and wondering why God had to curse her with a nine inch long nose.
I love this place. S0metimes churchy types talk about feeling the spirit when they walk in to a home. I definitely prefer to smell the spirit.
These are my sort of people.
By the way, this might all be one big lie.
I was driving home from an appointment this afternoon on I-30W through Dallas. James was at a friend's house, I was a few minutes late to pick him up, and traffic was heavy. Just as things began to move, a minivan full of elderly women merged in front of me and proceeded to crawl along at 38 miles per hour.
As nice as they seemed, I sincerely didn't want to find myself sitting in their third row of seats, so I held my breath and mashed on the breaks. Luckily, I didn't rear end them, and now that I was only two inches behind their rear bumper, I was finally able to read that darned bumper sticker--how convenient.
It said: I'M GLAD TO BE PRESBYTERIAN, and it featured a lovely graphic of a smiling goldfish.
Well great. I couldn't very well beep and curse and rage at a car full of elderly Presbyterians. Elderly vegetarians? Maybe. Super old magicians? Sure. But aged Presbyterian ladies? Certainly not.
So in the comfort and privacy of my own Toyota wagon I screamed, "I'M GLAD YOU'RE PRESBYTERIAN, TOO! BUT LEARN HOW TO DRIVE THAT DAMN BIG-RIG OF YOURS!"
And then, as I passed them on the right, I smiled and waved as kindly as I possibly could. If there was a universal hand signal for Presbyterianism, I totally would have flashed it. But unfortunately, there's not.
As soon as they were out of sight, which took--oh--about one seventh of a second considering their speed, I honked, I cursed, and I raged. At no one at all. It felt fantastic.
Ohmicrap. I need a vacation.
You might have noticed that I have a dog. Her name is Gracie, she's a brindle colored greyhound, and she's eight years old.
Don't get me wrong here--I like my dog, but I'm definitely not the type to gush about an animal. Hell, I don't even gush about my husband or my kid. I leave the really yummy emotional stuff for the finer things in life--like Slurpees, and fudge, and car-wash coupons.
Gracie gets walked anywhere between three and six miles a day, she eats all-natural-premium dog food, and I do whatever I can to keep her alive--so I'm a good dog owner. I don't however, feed her from the table, dress her up in princess costumes, and it's never even occurred to me to refer to her as my "child" or "baby" or even as my "fur-baby." So I guess I'm not a lovey-dovey dog owner.
She's my dog, she lies around breathing, and that's all there is to it.
Today, as I walked Gracie around the park, I ran into a mom who I recognize from the neighborhood. I really should know her name, but I don't--that's how close we are. She was pushing a stroller containing her toddler daughter and walking a chocolate lab. She saw me, I saw her, and we waved to each other from a distance.
We approached one another, and I said something to her like, "Hi! How are you guys today?!" as I made a goofy face at the little girl.
She seemed to be in a really good mood and replied, "We're so great! It's Carly's second birthday today!"
So of course, I pretended to be excited, smiled at the baby and said, "Wow! Happy birthday Carly! You're such a big girl."
I looked up at the mother and was met with a serious, straight face. "Um," she said, "That's Kate. This is Carly." as she pointed to the lab, who was vigorously sniffing my dog's rectal opening.
"Great," I said. Trying my very hardest to act as though I cared about someone else's dog's birthday. "Are you guys doing anything special?"
Wow. Were they ever. She went on to tell me about rawhide bones, a squeaky toy that resembled a t-bone steak, a custom designed dog cake, bone-shaped balloons and wait...that's not all...a birthday party with Carly's brother who *gasp* happens to live in the neighborhood.
As I listened to the drawn-out story of discovering Carly's long lost litter mate, it occurred to me that Gracie's birthday is also in November. So as we talked, I flipped back my dog's ear and deciphered the blurry old tattoo that all racing greyhounds have.
Sure enough, there it was: 11-15-99. Gracie's birthday was yesterday, and I completely forgot about it. There was no party, no presents, no cocktails--not even an unneutered male stripper!
I can tell that Gracie's more than upset about my ridiculously insensitive oversight. She's barely gotten out of bed today, and she's been giving me the silent treatment all morning long.
Please stand by, folks. The winners of the haiku contest will be announced later today. Just to review, a haiku has five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third. We had some very creative interpretations!
In the mean time, I have a sick James to attend to. Last night we unfortunately found ourselves smack in the middle of Toddler Vomitfest 2007--not my idea of a good time. Never being one to withhold the details, I'll let you know that we had 4 pajama changes, 5 sheet changes, 7 pillowcase changes, and a zillion blanket changes. By the end of the night, James was sleeping on top of bath sheets and using beach towels for blankets.
I'll be back in a little while.
I'll get my post up tonight. But in the mean time, here are a few original haikus for your reading pleasure:
I love Doritos
I would eat them every day
But it costs too much
My friend Beth is great
She babysat James last night
And gave him a bath
I don't like pork chops
Pork chops for dinner tonight
Life is very tough
Have a beer for the Mormon
My dear Kristina
There's a sizable group of runners who read this blog. There's a large group of non-runners who read this blog as well. In an effort to cater to both groups, I try as hard as I possibly can to keep the running related posts completely nontechnical and universally funny. Pictures generally help.
So here, my friends, is Marathon Training: Incident #5--complete with fabulously detailed illustrations to enhance your reading experience. Enjoy!...
Last night, I decided to head to the YMCA for a six mile run on the treadmill. Yes, it's true, I hate to run on the treadmill. But do you know what I hate even more than doing my mileage indoors? Missing the skin-tight, shiny outfits on Dancing with the Stars--the thought alone puts my stomach into knots.
I wasn't about to miss Marie Osmond shaking her thang to the rumba in sexy, navy-blue sequins, so I opted to combine my two activities.
I plugged my headphones into the sound jack, set the miniature television to the correct angle, and I was happily on my way. The show distracted me beautifully, and all was well...until Cameron and Edyta began to dance the waltz. Just as they were about to execute their first dramatic dip, I had the strong and sudden urge to pass some gas.
Before I let loose, I evaluated my surroundings. The treadmill to my right was empty and the treadmill to my left was occupied by a man with headphones. I figured it was safe, so I let her rip (see Figure 1).
After I did the deed, it occurred to me that there might be a person on the stairmaster directly behind my treadmill. I did a quick glance over my left shoulder, and sure enough it was occupied.
I immediately recognized the middle-aged man who was stepping his way to fitness--I see him at the gym several times a week. He seems to be about 55 years old, always wears t-shirts from the Dallas Symphony Orchestra, and his glasses make him look like a stereotypical smart person. Call me crazy folks, but I'm quite certain that people of this social stature never, ever fart.
Much to my dismay, the man on the stairmaster wasn't wearing headphones, so I'd have to try and keep the gas silent for the remainder of my workout.
It didn't work out so well (see Figure 2).
Well, I thought it was going well until this happened:
That's right. I couldn't hear myself honking, because I was plugged into my headphones. I only found out because a tall, lanky, poorly-mannered teenager stopped behind my treadmill, heard my wicked toots, and vociferously summonsed his friend over to join the fun.
Apparently, my assumption was incorrect--deliberate, silent farting is not a part of my skill set. I will adjust my resume accordingly.
Somebody talk me off of this ledge.
Why am I standing on a ledge you ask?
Because I'm angry. I'm SO ANGRY. I AM SOOOO FREAKING MAD!!!
As I was throwing some laundry into the washing machine this morning, I came across a peculiar sight. It was a priceless family heirloom haphazardly stuffed into a ball and thrown into the dirty clothes hamper.
That's right. The shorts from James's hand-sewn Richard Simmons halloween costume were wedged between a pair of pee-soaked footy pajamas and a stinky-old, wet dishrag.
I fished the shorty-shorts out of the hamper, caught my breath, and lovingly laid them on top of the dryer--inspecting them closely for any apparent damage. Aside from some moderate-to-severe wrinkling and a bit of pom-pom discoloration, they were okay.
"Thank goodness," I though. And then it occurred to me, "The matching shirt?! Where is the matching muscle tank!?"
I caught a glimpse of the empty hamper and realized that it was already in the washing machine, which was filling up with water. I threw my body over the dryer and was barely able to reach the STOP button with the tip of my middle finger.
I opened the washing machine and was relieved to find that the muscle tee had remained relatively dry. The felt stars, you see, are not machine washable. Neither are the crafty little pom-poms or the golden glitter accents.
I am, however, very sad to report that the tank top did not fare as well as the coordinating shorts. It's severely wrinkled, has several small stains, and the stars are falling off.
I'm not sure you understand the degree of angst that I'm experiencing as a result of this loss. I was proud of that hand-made costume. That circa-1970s white edging was attached with love--every single stitch was sewn in a caring effort to make my kid a little bit more special than the rest.
I wanted all of my kids to wear it. And I wanted all of their kids to wear it, too.
My hope is gone. My dreams are dashed. And my "helpful" husband will be sleeping on the balcony until he can either learn to reproduce the Richard Simmons costume stitch for stitch, or he begins earning a six-figure salary...which ever comes first.
I don't know what my problem has been, but for that last couple of days I just can't seem to get out of my own way. I'm way tired, I'm totally cranky, and I'm less motivated than--I don't know--my high school aged brother-in-law? (I love you, Bryan)
Seriously guys, you could throw me into a pot of boiling hot clam chowder and I'd be too lazy to even think about finding my way out. I'd probably just reflect upon how much I love creamy soups, curse at the universe, and go down with the ship.
I think it's a combination of a cross country move, a raging case of PMS, and training for a marathon.
Marathon training. What a ridiculous, time consuming, energy zapping hobby. Seriously, who thought this shiz up?
Three months ago, my friend Sarah was like, "Let's spend three hours running every single Saturday for the whole season of Autumn! And then, when that's all over, we can run twenty-six miles to celebrate! And then we'll eat a piece of cheesecake that night!"
And I was like, "Wow! That's the coolest idea ever! I'm gonna get chocolate cheesecake!"
I don't know, looking back on it, we could have said something like, "Let's cut one of our toes off each week with a rusty old pocket knife! And then, when that's all over, we'll celebrate by cutting our midsections in half with a band-saw!" It would have been almost the same.
I'll tell ya what. I could have spent every single Saturday for the last three months driving my ass to the Cheesecake Factory and eating a whole plate-load of creamy frosted goodness. Those waitresses don't ask if you just ran 26 miles before they'll serve you a piece of cheesecake, they just want to know if you're paying with cash or credit.
A few weeks ago, I got a Runner's World magazine in the mail, and the headline article said something like LEARN TO LOVE EVERY RUN! And the sub-headline, or whatever in the hell it's called said TEN TIPS TO REGAIN YOUR PASSION FOR RUNNING.
Jared picked it up and was like, "What?! Seriously--they're trying to convince you to ENJOY your HOBBY?! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever read! My fly fishing magazine never tries to talk me in to liking my selected form of recreation. BECAUSE IT'S FUN."
He's right. This is crazy. Running is dumb.
Now can someone go ahead and give me a little pep talk? I need some good-old-fashioned cheerleading today. But please, don't do your hair like Peggy Pom-Pom up there. She's totally creepy.
In the mean time, don't forget to vote! The polls close today, and I'm only ten votes ahead of the seventh place blog. They're trying to edge us out...we can't let it happen.
Have a great day, troops!
November 6, 2007
My husband has a bladder the size of a thumbtack. I would describe it was the size of a walnut, except that would be cliche...and terribly inaccurate. He would gladly trade up for a walnut-sized pee sack. I know he would.
Unless you or your spouse suffer from a mini-little-bladder, it's hard to understand how much this issue can affect your quality of life. On several occasions, I've watched Jared stop to pee on a rock/tree/dirt pile on his way to the toilet. Even if the bathroom's in plain sight, the man can't hold it for another nano-second--he MUST PEE ON THE HYDRANGEA PLANT NOW. Or behind the port-o-potty, because the simple illusion of a line can make this man let loose and wet his pants.
The first year we were married, we lived in a nasty old apartment near Bangor Maine. We had no washer/dryer hookups in our unit, and the laundry room could only be reached by walking outside, down the fire escape, and through a hatchway door to the basement.
One Saturday, in the middle of the winter, I ran outside to switch our laundry to the dryer. When I reached the hatchway door, I was completely repulsed because SOMEONE had been PEEING in the snowbank! Sure we lived in the nastiest apartment building in the heart of a college town, but somehow, I managed to believe that frat boys had at least a portion of a shred of dignity.
I switched the laundry, walked out of the hatchway, and disgustedly studied the pee patterns. That's when I noticed something interesting--the pee patterns were not simple dots or stripes, they were letters:
My husband had peed his initials into the snowbank. How very classy.
There's a good reason that this five-year-old story is on my mind today. You see, Jared has the fourth part of his board exams this weekend. If he passes this round, he earns himself the right to diagnose strange conditions, adjust people's bones, operate an x-ray machine with no supervision, and GET PAID TO DO IT!
If he passes this section, my husband will be Dr. Lawson.
This morning, as Jared was reading through his instruction packet for the exam, he let out a long, dramatic, worried sounding sigh. Assuming he was overwhelmed at the prospect of a three-day test, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Nervous?"
"Amy," he replied. "There's going to be a two and a half hour section with no pee breaks allowed. What am I gonna do?!"
As he walked toward the door, I could hear Jared using some positive self-talk. He was like, "Ok, I can do this. No water, no coke, no juice. I could pee in a Gatorade bottle, a potted plant, not a water fountain..."
Trust me people, you want this man to be your chiropractor.
November 5, 2007
We were two minutes late for church on Sunday morning. Sure we had an extra hour to get ready on account of daylight savings, but I'm quite sure the world would have tilted off its regular axis if we had been on time.
As Jared was unstrapping James from his carseat, he poked his head over the car's roofrack and asked, "Amy, what's all over his shirt and pants?"
I came around and took a look, but to be quite honest, I wasn't sure exactly what the crusty, white residue was--it certainly wasn't there when I dressed him fifteen minutes earlier.
"Banana" I said. It was probably banana. Or snot. Either way, it wasn't coming off with a baby wipe.
As we ran toward the church building, Jared turned to me and said, "Amy, I'm kind of embarrassed, James looks terrible. Should we take him home to change?" Jared wasn't acting even a hint over dramatic, James looked totally gross.
I agreed with Jared. I wanted to change James's outfit, too. But in true Lawson fashion, our laundry pile was almost touching the ceiling, so we didn't have much to change him into. It would have been either the Richard Simmons costume, a snowsuit, or a Nike basketball uniform--none of which are entirely appropriate for Sunday services.
We walked quickly into the chapel during the opening hymn, avoiding eye contact with every single member of the congregation, and settled into the third row from the front. James likes to keep himself occupied by flipping through the hymnal, so I wasn't surprised when I saw him pick it up. I was, however, surprised to hear the sound of paper rustling and ripping and James pleading for my help.
I looked down, and there was my child, freaking out because his sticky little fingers were stuck to Jared's favorite hymn: A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.
As I began to unstick his hand, Jared gave me a disapproving look, scooted up next to me and whispered, "Amy. Why's he so sticky? When's the last time this kid had a bath?!"
I thought for a moment. "Tuesday," I replied.
"Tuesday?! You're disgusting."
I was offended, so I was like, "No, YOU'RE disgusting."
As it turns out, neither one of us is the truly disgusting member of the Lawson family--that honor very clearly belongs to James. Because thirty seconds later, we were greeted with a super nasty, recognizable smell...toddler poop.
James always denies his poops. Seriously, this kid could have a load in his pants the size of Las Vegas and he'll never own up to it. So instead of wasting my breath and asking about the treasure, I peeked into his pants.
No poop. Just a raging toot! I could hardly believe it.
Of course my husband failed to agree with my report and had to assess the situation for himself. He scooped James into his lap, pulled the diaper away from his back, and just as Jared inserted his nose, James let one rip.
It was loud, and it was nasty. You could literally hear the people sitting around us let out an expressive OHHHH! when it happened--you know, the same kind of OHHHH! you used to let out when your favorite contestant on Double Dare lost his balance and fell into the pool of jello. It's sort of like surprise, disgust and delight all wrapped into one.
And then, right on cue, James began to rightfully deny the existence of a poop. With great vigor.
I NO HAVE A POOOOOOP!!!!!
DAMES DI NOT POOOOOP.
NO POOP IN DA PANTS!
At that point, we could bear no further humiliation, and had to remove our child from the chapel. Our loud, smelly, dirty, sticky child. And I bet, if we had licked him, he would have tasted kind of sour, too.
When we were safely in the hall, Jared didn't stop. He continued walking right to the men's bathroom where he proceeded to bathe James with hand soap and papertowels. When they finally emerged, about fifteen minutes later, Jared was looking pretty worn out, but still managed to wear a very satisfied looking smile.
"Well, you look proud" I said.
"I am" he replied. "I'm no longer embarrassed to be this kid's father."
I, on the other hand, am not quite over it just yet. Next Tuesday's bath can't come soon enough.