My babe is 29 months old now. Twenty-nine fucking months, with the mouth of a teenager. He’s grown a fondness for belting out “Asshole parade!” in sporadic and inopportune intervals, but Blake and I have been working diligently to replace that with “bubble muffin.” Well, for a day, we tried. An hour. Whatever.
I may have accidentally tought him to lash out at objects that have hurt him. For example, he trips over a strewn shoe. After brushing himself off, he approaches the shoe which has bullied him, he kicks the shoe, he screams “Bastard!” at the shoe, he fake-shoots the shoe.
I am horrible at this parenting shit. Thank god for Henry, unweaving the tangled and very inappropriate webs I weave. I like to imagine him lunging at said web with a machete, playing out his dream role in motherfucking ‘Nam. Hack that web, Henry. Do it for the USA. You patriotic fuck, you.
At least he’s not saying “Hey douche” anymore.
What else does my evil little spawn do. He craves high-fives for car line-ups he creates on the floor. If it’s a particularly remarkable car-train, he demands a coveted High-Five:Foot Edition, which is where the soles of our feet bro-up with each other, obviously.
He has a considerable amount of hair now, thank fucking god. However, he has two tendrils on either side that exceed the rest of his hair in length. Sometimes those tendrils, they curve up into the perfect Dairy Queen curl and he looks like he emigrated from Whoville.
And every day he begs to go to the “Ween Store,” which is the Halloween store for those who don’t speak toddler. We were at one last weekend, and when we aproached an excessive Halloween prop dragging its rotting cavity along the floor, Chooch grabbed my arm and, very earnestly, warned, “No, Mommy. Careful.” And no matter which Halloween store we’re patronizing, he always manages to find the mesh bag of plastic eyeballs and fills the store with his spoiled caterwaul when we tell him that unfortunately, a crack-addled hobo stole both of our wallets and now all of our money is being spent on Slim Jims and peg-legged hookers instead of bags of plastic optical party favors. Gosh darnit.
And while I love my son and his gigantor cranium, it is nice to have a job again, which affords me a few hours of peace at night. But I don’t tell Chooch that’s where I go at night or he’ll expect me to buy an acre of eyeballs. It’s better to let him believe Mommy’s getting shit-faced at the corner bar.