On the days he has school, it always works out that Chooch gets a seriously pernicious bug up his ass which conveniently coincides with Henry’s arrival home from work.
I don’t know what set him off this afternoon – he wanted a piece of tape and somehow Henry managed to succeed in fucking this up, and suddenly we had a riot on our hands.
Standing on the stairs, tears parachuting from his eyes and a demonic glower emanating from within, Chooch shouted in a voice that sounded nothing like his own, “You fucker! I’m going to tell Santa to stab you with a knife, Daddy, you fucker!”
(At least Henry can take comfort in the fact that his son doesn’t want to have to kill him himself, right?)
I’m sure it’s in really bad form for the mother to laugh during an outburst like this, but my god. He was so seriously pissed, and have you ever seen a four-year-old seriously pissed? It’s fucking funny. So I laughed. Openly laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” Chooch snarled at me, his voice quaking with histrionics, and I prepared to clean up the split pea soup.
However, Chooch has never threatened to put out a hit on me, so that clearly means I’m the favorites parent here.