Saturday morning, Chooch locked himself in our bedroom. Henry pretty much had an "Oh fuck" attitude, because from the times I’ve locked myself in there intentionally he knew that breaking in would be difficult. We stood in the hallway coaxing Chooch to turn the knob, but he was too busy sliding a selection of my belongings under the door. That’s great Chooch, but my nail polish isn’t going to help open up the door. Playing up the drama, Chooch would casually say, "Help me, I stuck", as if he felt compelled to play along. Finally, Henry had the knob pulled out of the door far enough to pop the lock, and we found Chooch sitting in the middle of a pile of laundry, looking suspicious.
Today my child said "asshole" for the first time, and then smiled proudly. I know that I should have immediately nipped that in the bud, but it sounded so cute so I encouraged him to say it again.
I’ll just make Henry put a stop to it. Go ahead, Henry. Put a stop to it.
I’m such an immature mother. At least I don’t leave him in the car with the windows up. Or hand him sticks of dynamite. But I guess that’s only because I’ve never had any sticks of dynamite in my possession.
In addition to swearing and locking us out of rooms, Chooch is currently into freeze pops, eating all the garbanzo beans from my salads, sweating, and doing sign language on our cat Nicotina (when he’s not putting her into head locks and chasing her into corners), and eyeballs.