Chooch started bitching about his underwear Friday morning, how I gave him a baby pair and they were falling down, wah wah wah. I got all annoyed because if they’re too small, throw them out!! Stop putting them back in the hamper for Henry to wash, for god’s sake. This was right after he bitched at me for pointing out that he hadn’t finished his homework. SO FAIL SECOND GRADE THEN, WHAT DO I CARE.
One time last week he bitched because I pointed out that his shirt was on backward and then he OMG had to turn it around, but he didn’t do it right so it was still backward and I was like “Your shirt is still on backward” and it was like [MAJOR BITCHING]. Sometimes I wonder if he’s eating estrogen pills.
“All you do is bitch,” I yelled as we splashed along the rainy sidewalk to his dumb school. “You’re like a nagging housewife. You should have your own damn show where you can just bitch about your whole life to everyone. Because that’s all you do! Bitch!” And then I started singing a jingle for his hypothetical show—because I love making up jingles—which went like this: Chooch’s Morning Bitch Fest….Monday thru Friday!*” And it was totally loud and theatrical like an orgy between the Boylan Sisters from “Annie” and Joey Gladstone from “Full House.” Also, it obviously had jazz hands (only one though because I was holding an umbrella) and it concluded with a little dance.
*(This recording was way less inspired & boisterous than the original heat-of-the-moment jingle & I apologize. But I’m sure I will be provided with ample opportunities to sing it. Again and again and again.)
And then something made me turn around, that strange sensation of paranoia that sometimes radiates into your back when you’re being watched, just in time to see that Chooch’s gym teacher was right behind us AND I MEAN RIGHT BEHIND US, cracking up. I was kind of embarrassed but Chooch was REALLY embarrassed and just shook his head.
“Hey what’s up Swaggy?” he laughed over the rain. Chooch earned that nickname last year because he’s got swag, y’all.
Chooch, still shaking his head and perfectly mimicking Henry’s patented smile-without-mirth, just gave a little grunt and kept walking.
“He’s miserable in the mornings,” I confided, hoping to detract from my makeup-less morning visage and pillow-tousled curls (that’s a fancy way of saying I had The Bed Head and it was not hot) by throwing my own flesh and blood under the bus.
Still laughing, the gym teacher assured me that he’d straighten him out later and I unclenched when he parted ways in order to enter the school from a different side.
“Good one,” Chooch spat.
“I mean, maybe he didn’t hear everything…” I suggested naively
Chooch just glared, his lips upturned in a disgusted scowl.
I have to say though that his gym teacher is not the worst looking gym teacher I’ve ever seen. So if he likes my jingles, he’s welcome to come over for more.