Halloween Costumes

October 31, 2008

Happy Halloween everyone!

Just so you know, please prepare yourselves to be seriously disappointed with James's costume this year. Yes, the craftsmanship is superb, and yes, James pulls off the look like a freaking supermodel, but I'm sad to say that it's a pretty "standard" Halloween costume. And no, he's not a pumpkin. I would never allow my child to be quite that lame.

I think there are three main factors that set me up to fall flat on my face with the *WOW* factor this year:

1. Last year, at age two, I dressed James as Richard Simmons--which was arguably the best costume in the history of mankind. In other words, James peaked at age two. I knew what I was setting myself up for, but I had to squeeze that costume in before my child developed the power to choose. Ya know?

2. My child now possesses a strong opinion, or, as I labeled it above, the power to choose. He spotted a costume on the cover of a magazine in the checkout line, and I rushed home--with a heavy heart--to whip it up. You can bet your bottom but that I'm disappointed he didn't point to Oprah or Elton John instead--but seriously, what can I do? The child is three and he knows how to make my life miserable. I wasn't about to say no.

3. We live in the arctic. We need to make proper provisions for a snowsuit to fit under a Halloween costume. You know, just in case Mother Nature still hasn't gotten laid and decides to dump a foot of snow on the happy little children. So much for my Michael Phelps idea.

But the important thing is--James adores his costume. So much, in fact, that he threw a raging tantrum when I refused to let him wear it to Nancy's Nursery School this morning. I told him he could put it on when he gets home, so I'll unveil this very normal costume at that point.

And, with that, I'd like to leave you all with a question--a discussion point if you will.

What is your most memorable Halloween costume from childhood? Go ahead and post it in the comments. I'll even open up anonymous commenting for those of you without Google accounts.

Here are mine:

1. A Honker from Sesame Street. It was a cheep plastic costume with one of those horrible masks --you know, the mouth slit is like the size of a safety pin so the whole inside of the mask fills up with mouth and nose condensation? It really honked and the front of it said "Honk if You're Happy." I felt really good about myself that night. Thanks, Mom!!!!

2. A cow. My mom never made us our Halloween costumes. From the age of six-and-a-half, we were totally on our own. And that's okay--I owe much of my current crafting abilities to my mother's lack of. Having to make your own costumes for the school play really forces a 4th grader to step up to the plate, ya know?

Anywho, I made my own cow costume in 5th grade and it was entirely inappropriate: cow printed stretch pants, felt horns, a Christmas bell around my neck, and--wait for it--two (2!) inflated plastic surgical gloves twist tied to my abdomen. In retrospect, I looked like a drunk person with 10 schlongs and 2 enlarged prostates. My mom was like, "Perfect. Now go."

I made it on the 8 o'clock news that night. I wonder why. (Melissa or Allison, do either of you still have a picture of that?)

3. A school bus. When I was in high school, my boyfriend and I convinced the clerk at 7-11 to let us take the giant cardboard Wonder Bread display that happened to be shaped like a school bus. In retrospect, I don't think he spoke much English, because once we started unloading the bread and moving that thing out the door he started screaming like a loony--all pointing to his phone and saying "Police! Police!" We loaded that think in the mini-van and never heard a word from the police. So there.

Anywho, we reworked the bus so that we could fit four people in it at a time--me, my boyfriend (we'll call him Eddy), my friend Kimberly, and her boyfriend Nicholas, who happened to be the French foreign exchange student (Nic, if you're reading, thanks again for the help on those quizzes--so what if we were removed from the National Honor Society!)

My dad fashioned some straps so we could wear the bus over our shoulders, and dang, it was a tight squeeze for the four of us. There was a whole lot of shuffling that night. And not to mention, it was a major b***ch getting up and down people's stairs--but we prevailed.

4. The dice was RADICAL! (both times), and my Run DMC (Rest-in-Peace, man) costume wasn't too shabby either.

So now I want to know....what is your most memorable Halloween costume?

Lawson Family Update

October 29, 2008

It's been a while since I've posted a good old fashioned Lawson Family Update. So this one goes out to our friends and family who are far away, and also to the relentless stalkers who are desperately seeking more clues regarding our whereabouts.

We'll start with me--the pretty one.

Here is a picture of me eating lobster with my two favorite guys. Despite this fabulous meal, I have still managed to lose ten pounds in the last couple of weeks. No seriously, I have. Seriously.

One cruel symptom of late-term miscarriage is weight gain--typically five to ten pounds. So let's do the math here people...

10 pounds of baby weight + 10 pound of miscarriage weight = 20 extra pounds right before my stinkin' high school reunion

This can only mean one thing: Mother Nature needs to get laid. And soon. Seriously, what a flaming b*tch.

Anywho, I have dodged her shallow game and I'm happy to say that I'm pretty much back to my prepregnancy weight. My fat jeans are too big, my regular jeans are just right, and my skinny jeans? Well they can rot in hell for all I care, because I'll never stop eating cake every day. Ever.

Next, we'll move on to James--the cute one (at least my mother still thinks so).

I'd like to start this update with a suggestion: If your child happens to have a 3-year-old classmate with curly hair named James Lawson, go ahead and pull your child out of school--because seriously, James has been a really bad boy.

Yesterday alone he earned two timeouts from sweet, sweet, sweet Miss Nancy. The first was for hoarding thirty matchbox cars and refusing to share a single one with Willy. And the second? The second was for violently crashing the play shopping cart into the toy shelf, the book basket, the plastic kitchen, and others. By "others," I mean his friends.

He also came home with his head, ears, and the back of his shirt covered in red marker--obviously a two man operation. Apparently he coaxed little Lucy into the marker escapade and cheerfully encouraged her as she scribbled all over Miss Nancy's carpet.

What can I say? We're very proud of the little guy!

And then, of course, there's Jared--the smokin' hot one.

He might be posing next to a poster of the muscular system, but trust me, there's nothing in this man's head except trout. Rainbow trout, brook trout, brown trout...trout, trout, trout.

Oh, wait. What's that you say? You don't think trout sound very interesting? Well, neither do any of our friends or potential friends. Our social life has all but dried up on account of my Jared's obsession with aquatic animals. Thanks hun!

In other news, Jared has taken to leaving random crap strewn all over our yard: chairs, tools, tarps, extension cords--you get the idea. When our meticulous neighbor George keels over from a sudden heart attack, it will absolutely be Jared's fault. But let's focus on the bright side here--if the memorial service is well-attended, Jared will have tons of new people to discuss trout with. I'd call that a win-win-win situation.

So there you have it, life in the Lawson house. Wanna come over?

Maine, Winter, and Boone's Farm Wine

October 28, 2008

DISCLAIMER: I'm human, and I like to talk about it.

Well guys, tonight is not shaping up to be a good night in my little corner of the world. Not only does this Tuesday mark the last evening of my beloved sewing class--but we're also expecting our first snowfall of the season.

I know what you're thinking--Amy, you live in Maine. What do you expect?

Well, I expect the global warming crisis to do a little something in my favor. That's what I expect.

But woe-is-freaking-me, it still snows in October, it's still pitch black by four o'clock in the afternoon, and despite my religious leanings, I still have to fight the urge to drink a heavy-handed Jack n' Coke with every single meal and snack.

That, my friends, is no joke--just ask Jared.

I'm the Mormon who literally salivates when we drive past a liquor store.

I'm the girl who will stop a stranger at a dinner-party and politely say, "Excuse me Ma'am, but would you mind if I took a quick sniff of that cosmopolitan you're holding?"

And, of course, I am the wife who, from the months of November through April, gets angry with my husband every single night. When he asks the inevitable question: Amy, why are you mad at me now? I give the inevitable answer: Because I STILL don't understand why we can't be Methodists. They can drink, Jared! THEY CAN DRINK ALL THEY WANT!

Oh, and just an FYI--so can Lutherans, Catholics, Congregationalists, Jews, Episcopalians, etc. And seriously guys, I would be honored to be a member of any one of those fine religions.

So. Guess what's moving in right next door to Jared's office? Seriously--just guess.

That's right, a high class martini bar.

This has made me inordinately cranky. From time to time, the owner will pop into our office and ask me a silly question like, "Hey, when you have a minute can you stop over and taste a sample of our new chocolate martini?"

And I'm like, "No Patrick, I'm sorry, I can't. But if you ever need a taste-tester for your chocolate milk, you just let me know. I do apple juice, too."

But in the end, this is all up to me. I chose not to drink--partly based on my religious convictions, and partly due to the fact that I know I'd transform myself into a public spectacle within thirty non-sober days. Just ask my college roommates.

So that's that--I will muscle my way through this winter with out so much as a swig of Sam Adams or a luscious little dribble of wine-in-a-box. It's just me, some strength from the scriptures, and a little orange bottle of anti-depressants (with three refills).

Bring it on, winter! Bring. It. On.

Photos by James

October 27, 2008

There's no doubt about it--this Christmas, James will be getting his very own digital camera.

I know, I know--it's kind of a strange gift for a three-year-old boy, but trust me, this child'll love it. He's always lugging my camera around--you know, snapping some candids and licking the lens.

Last week I spent an entire workday driving around town, taking photos of the lovely fall foliage with the intention of posting them on my organization's new website. Early this morning, I popped my memory card into my laptop and ran off to my Board of Director's meeting, hoping to gain approval to post the pictures.

But when I pulled up the photos, the red and yellow trees were nowhere to be found. Somehow James wiped the entire memory card clean and refilled it with 100-or-so pictures like these...

Gracie's bum:

My bum:

And plenty of self-portraits:

I can't wait to unveil the new web site at work!

One Month Yesterday

October 23, 2008

Yesterday was the one month mark--one month since Jared and I lost our baby boy. And my goodness, this has been the longest thirty days of my life. I honestly feel like I've aged about twenty-five years since September 22nd.

It's really no good--I feel a hell of a lot older, but I'm still really, really far away from retirement.

Damn. It.

You know me, I won't lie. I won't make things seem rosier than they actually are, and I won't pretend to have a perfect take on life. But you know what? Yesterday wasn't all that bad.

When I came home from work, there was a huge, green cardboard box sitting on my front steps. It was taped-up every which-way, scribbled with permanent marker, and quite obviously came from someone's home--certainly not a business.

I curiously approached the box, which was addressed to me, and noticed a return-address from the Midwest. "Who lives in Illinois" I asked myself? "I swear I don't know anyone named Brenda from Illinois."

I clumsily picked up the box, which was surprisingly light for it's bulky size, and walked it to my kitchen table. As I cautiously slit the tape with my sewing scissors, I continued to wonder, "Who in the crap could this big old box be from?" (I've never claimed to have eloquent thoughts)

When I folded back the cardboard cover and peeked inside, I gasped, instinctively covered my mouth with my left hand, and felt a stream of tears begin to run down my face. I pulled a clear plastic bag out of the box and carefully removed the contents, laying them across my kitchen table and stroking them with my tear-stained cheek again and again.

Two months ago, when I still had my heart set on becoming a mother again, I ordered a beautiful set of custom-made cushions for my rocking chair. They were a cream color with red accents--perfectly appropriate for a boy or a girl--and I made sure to order the extra-high-quality foam stuffing. Sure, it was a thirty-dollar upgrade, but I planned on rocking this baby a lot. And besides, Jared never needed to know just how much I spent.

The cushions were absolutely beautiful--much brighter and cushier than I had anticipated.

I carefully picked them up from the table, and cradled them in my arms as though they were the baby I've been aching for. I carried them to our basement playroom, and tied them onto my naked rocking chair. I stepped back to take a look, and couldn't fight the soft smile that came across my face. That chair had never looked so pretty.

So pretty, that I instantly gave in to my urge to sit down and glide for a while in the silence. As I rocked back and forth, I wasn't quite sure what to do with my very empty arms. It had been years since I'd been in that chair--and back then I only used it to lull James to sleep. My arms were always more than full with my giant, happy baby boy.

My arms finally settled onto the armrests, and my head leaned against the back. I stared up for a while, confirmed that I still detest our drop ceilings, and helped myself to a vocal prayer.

"Heavenly Father," I mumbled. "I'm just really, really sad. Please make sure he has someone to take care of him and some good friends to play with. Friends are really important."

"Help me to be a good wife and Mom," I continued, "because Jared and James really need me. They really need me now."

And on and on it went.

When I offered my "Amen" and stood up from my chair some time later--I'm honestly not sure if it was minutes or hours--I changed into my cold weather running clothes, tied my shoes extra-tight, and turned my mp3 player to my favorite comedy podcast.

It's strange, but even though the tears were still coming, I was thoroughly cracking up by the time I got to the end of my street. Some guy was telling some story about accidentally buying a pizza shop from a mobster, and I'm not sure why, but his heavy New York accent kept me belly laughing for the next six miles.

When I came home an hour later I picked up my running log, did my best to grasp my cheap Bic pen with my seriously frozen fingers, and scribbled the following entry:

Hill work-out. Did the long, steep Main Street hill 4x and yelled curse words every time I got to the top. Had my headphones in, so I was probably yelling louder than I should have. A cop stopped to ask me if everything was okay when I was cooling down, and I told him I was fine--but that hill's one hell of a @#$%ing ^&*@!. He liked that. Good work out. Really good workout.

All in all, it wasn't too bad of a day--a whole lot better than I was expecting.

And may God bless anyone who's dealing with the loss of someone special.

(Photo by Ken Schafer on Flickr)