September 29, 2009
On Saturday afternoon, when I opened up my mailbox, there was some sort of a letter from James's elementary school.
"Huh. That's funny," I thought. "Usually they send letters home in his back pack."
I ripped open the envelope quickly, excited at the prospect of what might be inside--after all, it was far too important to send home with my irresponsible, little four-year-old. Perhaps it was the letter confirming my suspicions that James is gifted, talented, and too handsome for his own good?
I unfolded the letter, read it once, and had to read through it twice to fully take it in.
It was a bill. For nine dollars. From the elementary school cafeteria.
Apparently, my son had talked the lunch lady into opening a tab so he could buy himself an extra little something every day. You know--a pudding cup, a Nutty-Buddy, a two-pack of cookies. Basically, whatever his chubby, little heart desired.
I've never been so proud in my life.
But, regardless of my pride, I'm not the type to let my food-loving child get away with everything, so I called the cafeteria yesterday morning.
I was like, "Hi Cheryl, this Amy Lawson, James's mom."
"Oh," she chimed! "We love James, he's so darn cute!"
"Cheryl," I replied, "I didn't know that the preK students were allowed to charge things in the cafeteria without their parents' permission."
"Well they're not," she said.
"But I just got a bill for nine dollars from you guys. James has definitely been charging some snacks."
"Well he's really persistent," she said. "And cute, and convincing..." her voice trailing off. "And he loves cupcakes more than any other kid I've ever dealt with."
And I was all, "Oh Cheryl, you should see him with a milkshake--he's completely passionate."
And so on and so forth.
Last night, I made the executive decision that I'm going to continue to allow James to run a tab on his snacks at school. I think it's totally funny.
Extraordinary Parenting: It's Easier Than You Think
September 24, 2009
I chaperoned a field trip for sixteen four-year-olds today, and holy hell, what freaking craziness.
Now don't get me wrong here, I love four-year-olds just as much as the next guy--their tousled hair, the way that boys aren't afraid to hold hands with other boys, the fact that they tuck their t-shirts into their underpants--but honestly, I only volunteered out of fear. Pure fear that James might sh!* his pants in the middle of a remote apple orchard and never make a full recovery.
I mean really now, my kid's been sick for the last couple of days and he's accidentally pooped his pants twice. He's definitely on the mend, but I still don't have total and complete faith in the strength and wisdom of his bowels--especially among thousands of pounds of apples.
Go ahead and call me a helicopter parent for tagging along, but my son's got a reputation to uphold among his peers, and because of that, the only lap he should be pooping on is his mother's.
Seriously guys, James'll be going to school with these kids for the next fourteen years of his life, the last thing I want is for his quote in the senior yearbook to read, "Dude! Sorry I shat in your shoes."
After all, that was my senior quote--and in this family, we really value originality.
Anywho, I went on the field trip, and it involved a long and bumpy hay ride through a dirt road in the woods. As I was climbing onto the wagon I muttered a little prayer. I was like, "Dear Lord, please don't let these bumps make James explode, but please let the bumps make me explode." What can I say? I'm sick of being pregnant. But looking back, I probably should have been more specific with The Man Upstairs.
Once I settled onto my bail of hay I looked around and noticed that literally all of the adult eyes were planted on me. Apparently, the mere prospect of some woman's water breaking behind a tractor is even more intriguing than a night at the three-ring circus.
Now a woman's water breaking while her son has a raging case of projectile diarrhea? That, my friends, would blow 'em clear out of the water.
And here comes the good part--there was no water breakage, but between you and me and no one associated with James's class, I legitimately peed my pants before we even got to the goat pen. Every time we'd hit a rock, or a divot, or a weed, another four-ounces-or-so would spew out of my bladder and onto the seat of my pants. James's teacher would turn to me and say something hopeful like, "Any contractions after that bump?" And I'd smile to every adult on the wagon and say, "Nope, nothing," as my Hanes Her Way High Waisted Briefs became more and more water logged.
As we passed the sunflower field and I whizzed for the third time in three minutes, James pulled my ear toward his mouth and regretfully whispered, "Mom, I think I pooped in m'britches a little bit." And I was like, "No big deal, buddy. Mommy accidentally tinkled on this hay bail. A lot."
I've never, in my life, seen such a look of reassurance on any child's face. I knew his secret and he knew mine--and those secrets were locked up tighter than tight in the sacred vault of the mother-son relationship.
My intuition told me that my boy would need me today--and he most definitely did. So mothers, never doubt your instincts. And never hesitate to pee in your pants for sake of your child's self-esteem.
I chaperoned a field trip for sixteen four-year-olds today, and holy hell, what freaking craziness.
Now don't get me wrong here, I love four-year-olds just as much as the next guy--their tousled hair, the way that boys aren't afraid to hold hands with other boys, the fact that they tuck their t-shirts into their underpants--but honestly, I only volunteered out of fear. Pure fear that James might sh!* his pants in the middle of a remote apple orchard and never make a full recovery.
I mean really now, my kid's been sick for the last couple of days and he's accidentally pooped his pants twice. He's definitely on the mend, but I still don't have total and complete faith in the strength and wisdom of his bowels--especially among thousands of pounds of apples.
Go ahead and call me a helicopter parent for tagging along, but my son's got a reputation to uphold among his peers, and because of that, the only lap he should be pooping on is his mother's.
Seriously guys, James'll be going to school with these kids for the next fourteen years of his life, the last thing I want is for his quote in the senior yearbook to read, "Dude! Sorry I shat in your shoes."
After all, that was my senior quote--and in this family, we really value originality.
Anywho, I went on the field trip, and it involved a long and bumpy hay ride through a dirt road in the woods. As I was climbing onto the wagon I muttered a little prayer. I was like, "Dear Lord, please don't let these bumps make James explode, but please let the bumps make me explode." What can I say? I'm sick of being pregnant. But looking back, I probably should have been more specific with The Man Upstairs.
Once I settled onto my bail of hay I looked around and noticed that literally all of the adult eyes were planted on me. Apparently, the mere prospect of some woman's water breaking behind a tractor is even more intriguing than a night at the three-ring circus.
Now a woman's water breaking while her son has a raging case of projectile diarrhea? That, my friends, would blow 'em clear out of the water.
And here comes the good part--there was no water breakage, but between you and me and no one associated with James's class, I legitimately peed my pants before we even got to the goat pen. Every time we'd hit a rock, or a divot, or a weed, another four-ounces-or-so would spew out of my bladder and onto the seat of my pants. James's teacher would turn to me and say something hopeful like, "Any contractions after that bump?" And I'd smile to every adult on the wagon and say, "Nope, nothing," as my Hanes Her Way High Waisted Briefs became more and more water logged.
As we passed the sunflower field and I whizzed for the third time in three minutes, James pulled my ear toward his mouth and regretfully whispered, "Mom, I think I pooped in m'britches a little bit." And I was like, "No big deal, buddy. Mommy accidentally tinkled on this hay bail. A lot."
I've never, in my life, seen such a look of reassurance on any child's face. I knew his secret and he knew mine--and those secrets were locked up tighter than tight in the sacred vault of the mother-son relationship.
My intuition told me that my boy would need me today--and he most definitely did. So mothers, never doubt your instincts. And never hesitate to pee in your pants for sake of your child's self-esteem.
Attitude Award
September 21, 2009
Welp, not a lot to report up in this neck of the woods. I'm still big, still pregnant, and the good news is that my attitude has improved immensely. I'm so nice, so kind, so considerate that I can hardly stand it.
But here's the bad news--when I have a good attitude, I have nothing to write about.
Holding doors for old ladies and constantly saying please & thank you only goes so far in the humor department, ya know? You guys seem to enjoy my rambling thoughts about injuring peoples' private parts far more than you enjoy my stories of good old-fashioned Christian charity.
Shame on you all.
So I'm signing off early today--I'd like to leave enough time to run and skip through fields of daisies before it gets too dark on me. But believe you me, if I see any super rude, ugly, and/or clumsy people out there, I'll be sure to hop on and tell you all about it. In detail.
Happy Monday!
Welp, not a lot to report up in this neck of the woods. I'm still big, still pregnant, and the good news is that my attitude has improved immensely. I'm so nice, so kind, so considerate that I can hardly stand it.
But here's the bad news--when I have a good attitude, I have nothing to write about.
Holding doors for old ladies and constantly saying please & thank you only goes so far in the humor department, ya know? You guys seem to enjoy my rambling thoughts about injuring peoples' private parts far more than you enjoy my stories of good old-fashioned Christian charity.
Shame on you all.
So I'm signing off early today--I'd like to leave enough time to run and skip through fields of daisies before it gets too dark on me. But believe you me, if I see any super rude, ugly, and/or clumsy people out there, I'll be sure to hop on and tell you all about it. In detail.
Happy Monday!
Still For Sale
September 18, 2009
Last night, around 5 o'clock, I was running around my house like a crazy woman, trying to get out the door to a meeting--which by the way, turned out to be the worst meeting I've had in a long, long time. It ended around 9 o'clock, with me standing in the parking lot of a fire house expressing the following sentiments over my cell phone: "You know, you're right, everyone does have a place where they can be most useful. His just happens to be in a vat of crap that goes right up to his neck."
That is not a joke.
Anyway, an hour before the meeting, I was an absolute mess. I had to run to grocery store for a box of almighty donut holes (as if anyone needs donut holes at a night meeting, right?), I still had to drop James off with his Grammie, and worst of all, I couldn't find a single thing to wear. And I mean that. I've long outgrown my professional clothes, my underpants chafe like they're made out of sandpaper, and I haven't done laundry in fifteen days.
Cut to me, digging through a box of workout clothes, looking for an elusive stretchy black skirt when the doorbell rings.
I ran to the door, swung it open, and was greeted by two guys I've never seen in all my live long day. Definitely not a set of Mormon missionaries, like I'm used to. This companionship looked like lobstermen, they smelled like lobstermen, and guess what? They actually were lobstermen from Damariscotta, Maine. One was tall and thin, the other was short and stout, and they both had a lazy eye. I kind of wanted to take a picture.
I, on the other hand, was half naked, half a step away from blowing my top, and fully confused--as usual.
The guys appeared to be somewhere in my age range, and they introduced themselves as "Norman" and "Clyde." Again, this is not a joke. I mean, maybe it was to their mother when she was drinking whiskey and pushing 'em out in a tavern somewhere--but as far as I could tell, their birth certificates could back them up.
Apparently, Norman and Clyde were at my house to look at the Blazer (oh yeah, because we still have it--a story for another day) and maybe take 'er for a test drive. Never wanting to disappoint a man of the sea, I tossed them the keys and was like, "Oh no problem, this is a perfect time to check out the car! But seriously, if you're not back in nine-and-a-half minutes, I'll make the time to stick an Indigo Girls sticker on the bumper of your Subaru Outback."
They were back in eight-and-a-half.
And there I was, standing in the driveway holding the title in my left hand, and my favorite purple fuzzy pen with my right. They stepped out of the Blazer and I was like, "So? What'd ya think?" And before they could answer I was all, "Give me six hundred bucks or a mulching lawn mower and she's yours!"
But they had questions. Like:
THEM: How come the speedometer don't work?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: How come the tailgate don't open?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: Why'd you decide to sell it?
ME: Because it's an '89...you're approaching your time limit here, boys.
THEM: How long've you had it?
ME: Since '89.
THEM: Why does it lean to the let so hard?
ME: Because. IT'S AN '89!!!!
I'm very sorry to say that they missed the opportunity of a lifetime and left my driveway empty handed. A shame really, '89 was a great year.
Let me know if you're interested.
Last night, around 5 o'clock, I was running around my house like a crazy woman, trying to get out the door to a meeting--which by the way, turned out to be the worst meeting I've had in a long, long time. It ended around 9 o'clock, with me standing in the parking lot of a fire house expressing the following sentiments over my cell phone: "You know, you're right, everyone does have a place where they can be most useful. His just happens to be in a vat of crap that goes right up to his neck."
That is not a joke.
Anyway, an hour before the meeting, I was an absolute mess. I had to run to grocery store for a box of almighty donut holes (as if anyone needs donut holes at a night meeting, right?), I still had to drop James off with his Grammie, and worst of all, I couldn't find a single thing to wear. And I mean that. I've long outgrown my professional clothes, my underpants chafe like they're made out of sandpaper, and I haven't done laundry in fifteen days.
Cut to me, digging through a box of workout clothes, looking for an elusive stretchy black skirt when the doorbell rings.
I ran to the door, swung it open, and was greeted by two guys I've never seen in all my live long day. Definitely not a set of Mormon missionaries, like I'm used to. This companionship looked like lobstermen, they smelled like lobstermen, and guess what? They actually were lobstermen from Damariscotta, Maine. One was tall and thin, the other was short and stout, and they both had a lazy eye. I kind of wanted to take a picture.
I, on the other hand, was half naked, half a step away from blowing my top, and fully confused--as usual.
The guys appeared to be somewhere in my age range, and they introduced themselves as "Norman" and "Clyde." Again, this is not a joke. I mean, maybe it was to their mother when she was drinking whiskey and pushing 'em out in a tavern somewhere--but as far as I could tell, their birth certificates could back them up.
Apparently, Norman and Clyde were at my house to look at the Blazer (oh yeah, because we still have it--a story for another day) and maybe take 'er for a test drive. Never wanting to disappoint a man of the sea, I tossed them the keys and was like, "Oh no problem, this is a perfect time to check out the car! But seriously, if you're not back in nine-and-a-half minutes, I'll make the time to stick an Indigo Girls sticker on the bumper of your Subaru Outback."
They were back in eight-and-a-half.
And there I was, standing in the driveway holding the title in my left hand, and my favorite purple fuzzy pen with my right. They stepped out of the Blazer and I was like, "So? What'd ya think?" And before they could answer I was all, "Give me six hundred bucks or a mulching lawn mower and she's yours!"
But they had questions. Like:
THEM: How come the speedometer don't work?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: How come the tailgate don't open?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: Why'd you decide to sell it?
ME: Because it's an '89...you're approaching your time limit here, boys.
THEM: How long've you had it?
ME: Since '89.
THEM: Why does it lean to the let so hard?
ME: Because. IT'S AN '89!!!!
I'm very sorry to say that they missed the opportunity of a lifetime and left my driveway empty handed. A shame really, '89 was a great year.
Let me know if you're interested.
Pregnancy Brain, Case Number 4,352: Amy and the Great White Phone
September 15, 2009
I'm nothing short of a spectacle these days--a true sight to behold, if you will.
The very last thing I need to do is draw any unnecessary attention in my direction--but let's not forget, I'm Amy Lawson, and that happens to be my speciality.
I've been at work since 6 o'clock this friggin' morning. I got here early for two reasons. First, I'm an independent contractor, and I'm trying my damnedest to bank some hours before this baby comes in a couple of weeks, and second, I had a 7 o'clock meeting.
As soon as the meeting was over I realized how unbelievably hungry I was, so I grabbed my wallet, my phone, and my keys, and set off for my very favorite muffin joint. Which happens to be inside of a gas station. Because Maine is totally classy like that.
As I was driving to the gas station, I grabbed my phone to call Jared, and guess what? Nothing. No reception whatsoever. The phone was completely dead, like something out of a Brady Bunch episode where Bobby fiddles with that old school phone cradle, smiles, and hops on his banana seat bike to go let Ethel the Operator know about the issue in person. Too bad "Ethels" don't exist anymore, because hoo boy, I could really use someone to let go on today.
Anyway, the lack of service was kind of strange for that particular spot on the road, but again, I live in Maine, and rumor has it that some people up here still crap in cooking pots and throw it out their living room windows--so really now, what more could I expect from a silly piece of modern technology?
I pulled into the gas station, gathered up my things, and waddled toward the door. As usual, people turned to look. I'm used to this now, especially after Jared let me know why--apparently it looks like I'm "walking around with a donut shoved up [my] ass."
To which I say: Well thanks, hun! You know, I wasn't gonna mention this, but it smells like you're walking around town with an industrial waste dump shoved up your ass, so I guess we could both use a good old enema, now couldn't we? Love ya!
Anywho, I waddled across the parking lot smiling in response to a couple of stares and snickers, loathing nineteen-year-olds, and thinking to myself, "If only I had a legitimate reason to kick you in the balls right now...." and "Once upon a time, you came out of some one's vagina, too. So shut the hell up!"
And then I thought about the talk I gave in church on Sunday. It was about kindness. It was really good.
I walked into the store and carefully selected the biggest chocolate chip muffin of the lot. I guess it was the gas station's birthday (or some crap like that) so it was on sale for a dollar. Finally, my mood was beginning to change.
That is until Mike, the middle-aged cashier, looked me bang in the eye and said, "Nice phone."
I was confused, my cell phone sucks--it's broken and it's always kind of greasy. How could this man possibly be complimenting my nasty little Nokia?
Well, turns out he wasn't. He was complimenting the gigantic, white, portable phone that belongs on a cradle in my office. You know, since that was the one I brought along with me.
I didn't even have a purse to conceal that monster on my way out of the store, so I manned up, and walked by those boys for a second time. What used to be a quiet snicker had turned into a big old whoop-de-doo! They were busing a gut over there. At my expense.
So I did the only logical thing that a grown woman could do. I said, "You suck. Both of you." And then I ran to my car and cried for a minute.
The End.
I'm nothing short of a spectacle these days--a true sight to behold, if you will.
The very last thing I need to do is draw any unnecessary attention in my direction--but let's not forget, I'm Amy Lawson, and that happens to be my speciality.
I've been at work since 6 o'clock this friggin' morning. I got here early for two reasons. First, I'm an independent contractor, and I'm trying my damnedest to bank some hours before this baby comes in a couple of weeks, and second, I had a 7 o'clock meeting.
As soon as the meeting was over I realized how unbelievably hungry I was, so I grabbed my wallet, my phone, and my keys, and set off for my very favorite muffin joint. Which happens to be inside of a gas station. Because Maine is totally classy like that.
As I was driving to the gas station, I grabbed my phone to call Jared, and guess what? Nothing. No reception whatsoever. The phone was completely dead, like something out of a Brady Bunch episode where Bobby fiddles with that old school phone cradle, smiles, and hops on his banana seat bike to go let Ethel the Operator know about the issue in person. Too bad "Ethels" don't exist anymore, because hoo boy, I could really use someone to let go on today.
Anyway, the lack of service was kind of strange for that particular spot on the road, but again, I live in Maine, and rumor has it that some people up here still crap in cooking pots and throw it out their living room windows--so really now, what more could I expect from a silly piece of modern technology?
I pulled into the gas station, gathered up my things, and waddled toward the door. As usual, people turned to look. I'm used to this now, especially after Jared let me know why--apparently it looks like I'm "walking around with a donut shoved up [my] ass."
To which I say: Well thanks, hun! You know, I wasn't gonna mention this, but it smells like you're walking around town with an industrial waste dump shoved up your ass, so I guess we could both use a good old enema, now couldn't we? Love ya!
Anywho, I waddled across the parking lot smiling in response to a couple of stares and snickers, loathing nineteen-year-olds, and thinking to myself, "If only I had a legitimate reason to kick you in the balls right now...." and "Once upon a time, you came out of some one's vagina, too. So shut the hell up!"
And then I thought about the talk I gave in church on Sunday. It was about kindness. It was really good.
I walked into the store and carefully selected the biggest chocolate chip muffin of the lot. I guess it was the gas station's birthday (or some crap like that) so it was on sale for a dollar. Finally, my mood was beginning to change.
That is until Mike, the middle-aged cashier, looked me bang in the eye and said, "Nice phone."
I was confused, my cell phone sucks--it's broken and it's always kind of greasy. How could this man possibly be complimenting my nasty little Nokia?
Well, turns out he wasn't. He was complimenting the gigantic, white, portable phone that belongs on a cradle in my office. You know, since that was the one I brought along with me.
I didn't even have a purse to conceal that monster on my way out of the store, so I manned up, and walked by those boys for a second time. What used to be a quiet snicker had turned into a big old whoop-de-doo! They were busing a gut over there. At my expense.
So I did the only logical thing that a grown woman could do. I said, "You suck. Both of you." And then I ran to my car and cried for a minute.
The End.
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