Chooch and I were kind of under the weather on Saturday, but by that afternoon, we were practically clawing our faces off in boredom. Henry, however, was “so busy” and not doing a good job of entertaining us AT ALL, so we decided to ditch him and go to the cemetery.

Really, Henry was begging us to leave because we were “getting in the way” of his “cleaning.”

(Seriously, the house did not look that clean when we came home. Hope you had fun watching albino porn, Henry you sexual deviant.)

Anyway, I brought my Jonny doll and Chooch brought his favorite stuffed animal — a fox puppet appropriately named Fox. We’re on the same level.

We totally don’t need Henry!

(Until we get hungry.)

I really believe that cemeteries helped Chooch learn to read. So there.

(That and Asian horror movies.)

“What’s that green stuff? Chooch asked, toeing the ground. I almost peed my pants. It was moss! Eight years ago in that same cemetery, Henry and I had the most pointless discussion about moss, which culminated with him losing his patience and yelling, “Moss is bad! It can lead to problems! Leave it at that and end it!”

“Ask your dad,” I told Chooch, doubling over with laughter. I promptly texted my friend Alyson that Chooch had asked me about moss, and her response was “Moss is bad! Leave it at that!”

Henry, leaving lasting impressions across the Internet.

Of course, when I told him about this later, he looked all confused and said he didn’t remember what I was talking about. Nice to know he’s so cloudy when it comes to Erin & Henry: The Early Years.

And then something terrible happened.

Chooch and I were strolling along when we came to a crest in the road. That was when I saw her: a random, older woman wandering around amongst the tombstones.

I clotheslined my arm, bringing Chooch to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I hissed for him to STFU.

“Look at that lady,” I whispered. “I don’t trust her. She might be a ghost.”

“She doesn’t look like a ghost,” was Chooch’s Normal Person response, and he kept walking toward her. She was probably fifty yards away (hahahaha like I even know what yards are).

I had heart palpitations like Lady Gaga must get every time she dry humps a haute couture crucifix. “We have to get back to to the main road,” I said urgently. We were too secluded where we were. Probably no one would hear us scream when the stranger decided to mug us for our stuffed toys.

Please excuse my shitty diagram, but I am at work. This is the basic set up of the area of the cemetery we were hostages in, except that it’s kind of hilly, so you can’t actually see a lot of what’s ahead depending on where you are. For instance: Chooch and I didn’t know there was another person there until I yanked him to the right, onto another cemetery road that curves and drops down. Idling there was a man in a Blazer with Florida plates. The driver and I locked eyes in his rearview mirror and as he emitted a puff of smoke from his molestor-mouth, I had a Super Bad Feeling, also known as  Irrational Paranoia.

Just then, he put the Blazer in reverse and I dragged Chooch off the road and into the grass.

“What the hell?” Chooch yelled at me.

“OK, Chooch. Listen to me. We can either keep going straight until we reach the main road [where we could, what? Throw our bodies across the hood of a moving car so that they can drive us to safety?] or make a run for our car. Do you think we can make it to our car?”

I was afraid that the Blazer was going to loop around and beat us there AND THEN WE WOULD BE TRAPPED. But if we kept running toward the road, we could run through the grass, dodging all the graves which would make it impossible for him to run us down.

But then what if Chooch tripped or I dropped Jonny – would I be able to leave either of them behind?

(Yes, I thought a lot about this.)

Apparently I can leave my son behind because I decided we were going to make a run for the car and then started sprinting before Chooch had a chance to realize what was going on.

Don’t worry. He runs fast.

Oh fuck, did we run like Haitians.

Unfortunately, the handle on the driver’s door of our car has been broken for months now, and can only be opened from the inside. So I’m screaming, “GET IN THE CAR AND OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME! OPEN THE DOOR FOR ME OH MY GOD HURRY!!!” to Chooch, who’s flopping all over the console in an attempt to climb to the front, leaving me standing out there jumping up and down, and pee-jigging. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for the Blazer to appear, engine and libido revving,which would be one of the last sounds I heard before being vehicularly mudered.

Good news! We survived.

Not ready to go home yet, we went to another cemetery across the street. This one felt safer.

On the way home, I asked Chooch what his favorite part of the day was and he said, “When you got all weird about that lady.”

——————————

When we got home, I told Chooch to tell Henry about the harrowing events. He rolled his eyes and started out with, “There was this lady there that Mommy was afraid of for no reason—”

“I thought she could have been a ghost!” I interjected hysterically.

When Chooch got to the part about me making him run back to the car, Henry got all worked up and said, “Would you stop doing shit like that to him!?”

I can’t help it! I’m a very paranoid person, which I think stems from my mom. I still have vivid memories of her making me hide in the attic with her because some PTA lady was knocking on our door with a stack of papers she needed my mom to type.

There are times I scream, “PIZZA GUY!” and trip over myself as I run to the steps to hide. It’s an involuntary tick. I did this one time when Tommy and Jessy were here and Tommy mocked me for months. One time we were out at the flea market and out of the blue, he screamed, “PIZZA GUY!!” and started to run away.

(OK. Now that I just typed all that out, I guess I can see Henry’s point.)

After Chooch told the whole story, Henry sighed and said, “Did it ever occur to you that she was just looking for someone’s grave?”

Yeah, a grave to dig up and stash our remains in!

Click here to view this photo book larger

Two years ago, my friend Gayle reunited with Jeff, a man she dated thirty years ago. On Saturday, they got married!

Henry, Chooch and I were all invited, but Henry made us late (see also: Erin read the invitation wrong). By the time we arrived to the church in New Castle, Gayle must have JUST walked down the aisle, because it was quieter than a mime’s funeral up in that piece. So quiet that when the door slammed behind us, people in the back of the church turned and looked. Then Chooch started talking and it was like PING PING PING off the walls.

I clamped my hand over his mouth and pushed him down the hallway, away from the church door, and begged him to sit quietly with me on a bench. No way was I going to attempt to squeeze into a pew with the ceremony in progress, so we listened to it from the hallway, while Chooch spoke (in what he thinks is a whisper but is still totally loud and disruptive) about having to pee but really it was his ploy to get a good look around the church for the playroom that I stupidly told him was going to be available for the kids at the wedding.

Thankfully, the ceremony was seemingly performed by the Micro Machines guy and was over a few minutes after we arrived. Super bummed that we didn’t get to see any of it, but the advantage of being on the other side of the doors meant that we got to be the first people to hug and congratulate them! Chooch kept trying to ask her about that damn playroom, like that’s really what she’s thinking about 2 minutes after becoming Jeff’s wife.

Chooch was interrupted by the rest of the bridal party filing out, with all of the guests pouring out behind them, and we somehow got stuck standing alongside the bridal party, pinned against the wall by the receiving line. Some people seemed unsure if they were supposed to shake our hands too. It was incredibly awkward.

Henry was originally wearing his Freddy Krueger-striped henley but I made him change. He hates dressing nice. He would have worn his Everfresh pullover if he knew I wouldn’t castrate him with my former rich girl couth. But on the plus side, he didn’t frown once all night!

Speaking of appearances, I was super self-conscious about how I looked. (When am I not?) Henry kept saying, “Seriously? No one is going to pay any attention to us with Chooch there.” And he was correct. That little fucker has a permanent spot light on him. The coolest girl at the wedding (her name is Kayla and we’re both friends with the Trundle Manor crew, so Gayle formally introduced us – she has a giant ice cream sundae tattoo on her arm and I totally have a girl-crush on her now) told Chooch he had the best outfit and his cheeks immediately flushed.

We weren’t in the reception room for 10 minutes before Chooch found a rolled-up rug to purposely trip over. I know I shouldn’t be, but I still get mortified when he does shit like this. It’s embarrassing! And the front of his pants were filthy afterward. My greatest fear was that he was going to face-plant into the wedding cake. I saw the way he was eying it up.

And thankfully, the chocolate fountain was far enough back on the table that he couldn’t reach his tongue into it.

We sat with my co-worker Pam and her 18-year-old nephew Dominic who kept Chooch entertained. Mostly by egging him on and encouraging his antics.

And it’s always wonderful when we’re in a church and he’s introducing himself to people as “Devil.” I don’t think Pam was very amused by that, but Dominic started choking.

Chooch kept pacing around, waiting for Gayle. “Where is she!?” he kept asking huffily. And when the bridal party finally entered the room, Chooch acted like he was going to rush at Gayle, so I had to grab him by his blazer.

“Jesus, Chooch — let her sit down!” Henry sighed.

We were the table furthest away from the food, so Pam started grumbling about how we were going to be the last table called. Henry and I agreed, but Chooch, always contrary, said, “Yeah, well, I bet we’re first!”

And we were first. We had to hear about that one all night, and part of the next day too. (“Remember when the whole table was WRONG but I was RIGHT?”)

On the way back to our table, dinner plate in hand, Chooch walked right up to Gayle at the bridal table, interrupted her conversation with another guest, and in a frustrated tone, he asked, “WHERE is the play room!?” She laughed and explained that they still had to clear their stuff out of it, and he walked away completely unsatisfied with this answer.

After we had eaten, we were joined by my another girl from the Law Firm, Patty, and her fiance Tim (they had a friend with them too but I am half-retarded and forgot his name). They’re big horror buffs so I told Chooch this, hoping it would distract him from his play room quest. They asked him what his favorite horror movie is and he said Ju-On without hesitation. I ook their surprised reaction as a seal of approval — my kid doesn’t fuck around when it comes to horror. I don’t know where he gets that.

Gayle came over to visit with us and finally took him to the goddamn play room, in which he spent a whopping five minutes before returning to our table.

“It’s just a room,” he sighed. “With a few toys.”

“Well, what the hell did you think it was going to be?! A water park?” I asked. At least I was able to enjoy my cake after that without having to hear about the mysterious play room.

Anyway, what a fun night! It was great to see Gayle so happy and positively a’glow, and I’m honored that we got to share her big day with her and even made it out of there without Chooch doing anything devastating. I get that he’s amusing to most people, but he makes me so goddamn nervous and I’m hyper-aware of his every movement.

(He did come close to crashing into the Irish-music-playing sound system at one point.)

Chooch’s wedding card. I don’t know what kind of idea the groom is having, but it might have something to do with the bride’s boobs, maybe?

Blake turned 20 on Saturday. I can’t even believe it. He was 8 when I met him after Henry and I began dating, and it blows my mind to see that this green-haired maniac kid in an over-sized Korn tshirt  has grown up to be such a cool big brother to Chooch. And Chooch just adores him, even though he started crying earlier at TGIFridays because Blake “always hurts [his] feelings!”

Chooch kept threatening to tell our waitress that Blake wanted to dance with her. I think he would have told her too, had she not have been blond. Chooch has a super-hard time talking to pretty blond girls.

Blake agreed to go to the cemetery afterward and take bro-photos because it’s been awhile. I just wish Henry’s oldest son Robbie would have been there too, to make it more legit! Oh well, that gives me more time to find matching outfits for them.

Posing by the “farm of weeners.” Thanks for teaching him that one, Blake!

There was some yuppie bitch there trying to take Christmas photos of her spoiled brat children and I was getting so pissed because they kept popping up in the background of my shots. We crossed paths at one point, and I could tell she was super jealous of my cooperative subjects as she attempting to pick up one of her tantrum-throwing dick kids off the ground.

Amateur.

Their idea.

Chooch HATED this photo because it was one that Blake wanted, not him. I’ve realized over the years that the easiest way to get this shit done is to just let Chooch do what he wants. He gets really into the idea of having his photo taken as long as we’re using his ideas.

Later that day, it occurred to me that at some point during the year, Blake is 14 years older than Chooch, I’m 14 years older than Blake, and Henry is 14 years older than me, but this never happens all at once.

(And yes, I know: Chooch and Blake look so much alike, and Chooch looks nothing like me. You got me! Chooch isn’t my kid!)

Dumdum daddy would not let me go to staples to get sum paper because he thinks he is special and he was to busy watching his favorite* show.

[Mom Edit: This was apparently a super big deal while I was at work, as evidenced by Chooch’s notes to Henry, who was on the phone with his sister at the time. Please also note that for his inaugural post, I discouraged Chooch from using the arsenal of swear words he keeps on hand.

*By “favorite,” he means something more disparaging.

]

I love that Chooch’s front teeth are all exploited every time he take a swig from an iced tea bottle. It makes me crack up every time!

Here he is posing with Iceburgh (Penguins mascot) at the Heart Walk 5k we participated in Saturday morning. (Yet another frown-factory for Henry.)

Chooch has been especially sassy lately. Henry said they were at Kmart (ew) on Monday when Chooch grabbed a flag and shouted, “Me and mommy are voting tomorrow! We’re voting for Obama! Daddy’s voting for his ass!”

Then this morning, he casually asked, “I wonder if Mitt Romney is throwing a fit right now?”

In other news: what a fucking asshole of a week this is. Highlight was the Pierce the Veil show last night, which I wanted to write about today but I wasn’t able to take a break at work, so there went that idea.

Aron and I were commiserating today on what a cluster fuck work has been since our new program was launched on Monday.

“Well, a month from now—” he started.

“You’ll all be saying how much you miss Erin Kelly,” I finished for him.

And he laughed BECAUSE IT’S TRUE.

It seemed so perfect and so simple: Chooch being Daryl Dixon, his favorite character from The Walking Dead.

For once, I wouldn’t have to piss around with zombie makeup or clown makeup. And he would be comfortable! No itchy wigs! No coagulating fake blood on his face! No masks! (We did the Jason Voorhees thing when he was three, and that was stupid. A three-year-old in a mask? What were we thinking.)

I figured, “Oh, I’ll just peruse eBay for some toy crossbows, it’s all good.” And there were tons of toy crossbows on there! Some were REALLY CHEAP, too. But of course, I waited until the last minute because I kept getting distracted and missing the auctions. Finally, a week before Halloween, I snagged one with literally three seconds left. I’m not lying. Three seconds. And I got it for like $5, free shipping!

Too bad the estimated delivery date was November 1.

Henry went to one of the thrift stores one night shortly after that and found a toy crossbow in a bin. He sent me a picture of it and walked around while waiting for my response. Of course, some douchebag snatched it up right before I was able to respond to Henry’s text. Henry, learn to be more assertive! You don’t always need my permission! (I can’t believe I just admitted that.)

Meanwhile, the plastic ears I also purchased from eBay had arrived. Never mind that they were over-sized and meant to impersonate an elf. I painted them zombie-green and felt relieved that at least one component of the costume was ready.

You can kind of see his zombie ear trophy necklace here. I wish I had more time — I’d have made the ears myself. And by that I mean I would have sliced them off the missionaries we keep chained up in the basement next to the litter box and then let them decompose a little on their own before giving them a nice, preserving shellac.

The last part (aside from the clothing, which was easy to pull together – I just sent Henry out with his redneck fashion sensibilities and he sniffed out an outfit right quick, y’all) was the squirrel catch that Daryl has hanging from a rope on his side.

Plush squirrels are really fucking hard to find. And instead of focusing on that, I was too busy checking the tracking info for the crossbow, which was steady holding at November 1.

Then Hurricane Sandy happened and most of Western PA’s trick-or-treating was pushed to Saturday, November 3, buying us more time.

Not that it mattered — when the crossbow arrived the day after Halloween, it was THE SIZE OF MY HAND. That’s what I get for never reading descriptions. I was actually at work when this happened, and Henry informed me via text. I was already having a horrible day, so this turn of events had me heading for the bathroom for a quick cry.

My immediate response to adversity is to cry uncle. “Just take him to the Halloween store and let him pick out some stupid store-bought costume, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE!” I texted Henry while trying to maintain a pleasant face for my unaware co-workers. Keeping it together is probably the hardest exercise in my regimen.

The shit that goes on behind the scenes in my head, you guys. The shit that goes on.

While I spent the rest of the night with sparking synapses at work, Henry and Chooch went out and found a plush dog toy (that was my idea! To check dog toys!) that is actually a fox, but resembles a squirrel enough. So that was a relief. And then when I went home that night, Henry showed me some wooden pop gun he found and a thin, flexible piece of wood and explained that he was going to turn those two things into a crossbow.

And by George, that’s exactly what he did! THANK GOD FOR HENRY. A goddamn Halloween hero.

Ha-ha-ha, those fucking ears. I mean, at least they stood out. I guess.

It was way too cold for him to go sleeveless, obviously.

And just like last year’s Zombie Bieber fail, pretty much  no one knew who he was supposed to be.

We opted out of Brookline and instead went to Henry’s sister Kelly’s neighborhood in Bethel Park to trick-or-treat with Chooch’s cousin Zac, because going in groups is way more fun. Steph and her boyfriend Kian made sure to keep a two-house distance from the rest of us, though. Trust me, I know – adults are lame! I always get stuck with them!

This picture if blurry as shit but I don’t care — it was difficult enough to get one; I wasn’t about to make them stand there any longer.

We were joined by Kelly’s neighbors and their 7-year-old twins, Maya and Luke. At first I was skeptical, because you know me and kids. But they were super cool and Maya had biting wit to match Chooch’s. I think he fell in love with her.

And the parents were fun, too! It was a good time.

Henry had morphed into that weird, obnoxious Trick or Treating Coach again (“THAT HOUSE DOESN’T HAVE ANY LIGHTS ON! DON’T CROSS THE STREET YET OR ELSE YOU WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO ON THE WAY BACK! STOP CUTTING THROUGH THE YARDS! DON’T RUN — PACE YOURSELVES!”) so I hung back with Kelly and the other two parents most of the time.

In Brookline, we barely see any trick-or-treaters when we’re out. I know that there were definitely less kids out this year because it was moved to a different night, but it just seems like trick-or-treating is a dying tradition and it makes me so fucking sad. When I was a kid (I hate that I’m old enough to start stories with that bullshit line now), I remember there being swarms of kids out on Halloween, and you fucking stayed out until the last minute, when all of the houses started turning off their porch lights and your pillow case was so full, you had to drag it behind you like a dead body. It’s so different now. Kids start whining after one street! ONE STREET! This isn’t slave labor — you’re getting FREE CANDY just for looking adorable in your stupid costume, so STFU about it! My god.

Maybe if there was an app for it, more kids would have interest.

Here’s where coach Henry would holler, “USE THE STEPS!!!”

One house had their gazebo transformed into a haunted house. Kelly was too scared to approach it so she stayed on the street. I made sure to tell her kids later that their mom is a wuss.

At the house across the street from that one, I heard the guy handing out candy say, “Oh look! He’s Daryl from The Walking Dead!” and that was all the validation I needed. Thank you, That Guy.

There was a group of teenaged girls dressed in regular clothes and select Hot Topic head accoutrements who were trick-or-treating. We kept passing them and literally everything down to their very essence was irritating me. I mean, if you’re going to be taking candy from peoples’ houses, at least put some effort into your costume. Maybe go as a pregnancy test.  At one point, they were passing our little group of kids and overheard one of them saying, “Happy Halloween!”

“It’s not Halloween,” a tall one beneath a stupid fuzzy monster hat said in a shitty teenaged sneer. “It’s November 3rd.”

WELL, IT’S HALLOWEEN TO THEM, OK? OMG I wanted to slap that fucking snarled lip right off her pizza face.

I was totally never like that when I was that age.

OK, I was. But still! Maybe if more grown-ups had called me out, I would still be the same asshole I am today, so never mind.

Chooch’s crossbow broke at the very last house. Surprising it lasted that long.

<3 <3 <3 <3

Seriously, if Daryl dies, I’m done watching The Walking Dead.

While blowdrying Chooch’s hair this morning, I offhandedly wondered how many girls in his class have a crush on him.

“Probably none after today since you’re making me wear a sweater with OWLS on it,” Chooch muttered.

So what, owls are the new social suicide?

He does kind of look like I bought him at Ikea.

One of the things I hated about Chooch’s old school was that Halloween was treated like Satan’s bachelor party — to the point where it was called the “H-word.” The preschool classes were miraculously permitted to celebrate it. I remember, being a party helper, following the kids on their parade route through the school and hearing the other teachers saying, “No, don’t say the H-word! Don’t let [the principal] hear that!”

Give me a fucking break.

But apparently, some public schools are following suit. A letter was sent home a few weeks ago stating that in lieu of Halloween parties, the classes would be having “Fall Celebrations.” No costumes, no parade.

Shit, I was on a warpath, talking about spearheading a movement, writing letters, homeschooling my child (ha-ha, yeah right — that was just my angry estrogen levels doing their psycho pelvic thrust on that last part). Apparently, other parents must have complained because an amended letter was sent home saying that the parade was going to happen after all, and that all the kids could bring their costumes to school, but please no: weapons, masks, makeup and/or accessories.

OK, the weapons part I get. Especially being the city. But what’s left after you strip a a kids costume of makeup, accessories, masks?

This actually didn’t affect the first graders, because they had a pumpkin patch field trip that day. But thanks to Hurricane Sandy, the field trip was canceled, so I was left scrambling  to throw together a school-approved costume for Chooch.

[His actual costume is Daryl from The Walking Dead, but without a crossbow (weapon), dirt/blood on face (makeup), zombie ear necklace (accessory), and squirrel (accessory) hanging from his side, what’s the point?]

(I should also note that his Nerf crossbow — which I won with THREE SECONDS LEFT on eBay — isn’t scheduled to be delivered until tomorrow. Thankfully, trick-or-treating has been postponed until Saturday due to the horrible weather. So that’s one thing I can thank Hurricane Sandy for. She’s still a cunt, though.)

Short of sending Chooch to school with a sheet over his head*, he took a trench coat-type thing, his pin-striped vest and a fedora for the most half-assed, unrecognizable gangster of all-time. He must have asked me 17 times on the walk to school to remind him what he’s supposed to be.

(* The school probably would have considered this a tripping hazard, anyway.)

So, I guess no Halloween pictures until the weekend.  Here’s last year’s, in case you were really pining for some Oh Honestly Halloween bullshit (which I doubt):

************

Barb was nice enough to fill in for me at work so I could have the evening off to fulfill my quota of motherly obligations. And thank god, because Henry did absolute FUCK ALL as far as the costume went. In fact, he napped until about 20 minutes before it was time to trick or treat, I was so goddamn irritated.

“But my job is so hard! I don’t get very much sleep!”

Go cry to your mommy about it, OK Henry? Come back when you’re ready to be a real man and help put makeup on your son.

Thankfully, Chooch’s costume — zombie Justin Bieber — cost nothing. And thank god for that because Henry’s membership dues for the local Bronie chapter are late.

Thank you, Bieber, for being so easy to emulate.

I thought the lipstick prints were a nice touch, but unfortunately once the sun went down and it began to RAIN, I doubt anyone really noticed. Or bothered to wager a guess.

“You know what we need?” Henry asked, actually trying to get involved FIVE MINUTES before trick-or-treating started.

“A black kid to go with him as Usher?” I offered immediately, kicking myself for not asking our neighbor Toya’s son.

That was not what Henry had in mind, and I can’t remember what it was because it wasn’t very ingenious or memorable.

Chooch actually was using a much smaller treat bucket thing which Henry periodically dumped out in the Ugly Doll bag. We’re not that cruel to make him carry a tote bag half his size.

As soon as we walked out of the house, Chooch’s school buddy Nate and his older brother just happened to be at the house next to us, so they got to trick-or-treat together for awhile, but I feel like their aunt and uncle kept trying to ditch us.

I can’t imagine why.

At one of the houses, some guy who was maybe in his late teens/early 20s asked Chooch what his shirt said.Then to me, he said in this condescending tone of superiority, “I mean, I could see if he was a girl.”

Really? Is it seriously that common for a girl to dress as Justin Bieber?

So of course, I fixated on this for another block and a half, totally psycho-analyzing this fucker’s statement and questioning the obscurity of my kid’s costume.

“Let it go,” Henry kept mumbling around mouthfuls of pick-pocketed candy.

BUT I COULD NOT LET IT GO.

I was so happy when I put the pictures on Facebook later that night and one of my guy friends commented with a simple “Bieber?” YES. YES, THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT.

Henry reminded me that the rain was preventing people from stopping to actually look at what the kids were dressed right as some home owner exclaimed, “OMG BOB THE BUILDER! HOW CUTE!” as the little fucker behind Chooch toddled up to punch his hand in the candy bowl.

If I really wanted to reach new heights as a Halloween pageant mom, I could have arranged for some of the girls in Chooch’s class to dress as his squealing entourage. This wouldn’t be hard to accomplish considering how much they fawn over him anyway. I could have just set them loose and they’d have chased him down the street like they do on any normal day.

(I have to take my vitamin now. Henry bought me an apple corer thing like Barb has, so now I am eating all of the apples and choking back vitamins. This is a New Erin.)

There was one (1) Baby Ruth in Chooch’s bag that night and I said, “All I want is that Baby Ruth. Please, no one eat it.” But then I guess I was too distracted by my new apple fetish so by the time I went back for it, Henry had already shat it out in the toilet.

I was just telling Henry who I would want to help me raise Chooch in the event of Henry’s death. (And by that I mostly mean “fill my man void.”)

“Who would you want to help you with Chooch if I died?” I asked.

“Uh, I wouldn’t NEED help raising him,” Henry said, reminding me in one short sentence that he’s basically both parents to Chooch already.

It’s nice to know that Henry wouldn’t be too crippled by grief and loss.

No need to send any casseroles, ladies!

And if you could’ve seen that frown…

Can’t really see it, but he’s wearing a Robert Smith shirt and making my heart melt!

On the way to Baby Q and Cyrus’s birthday party!

He tries to play hard to get with Wendy because she’s blond (and blonds make him blush faster than Snooki’s neighbors programmed CPS into their phones), except when she was the only one willing to teach him how to play pool on Saturday.

Birthday boy Cyrus!

He went to three haunted houses this weekend, which is good since he started his OWN HAUNTED HOUSE JOURNAL! Oh my god, you guys. Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of him! However, the one I took him to last night really shook him up. He didn’t cry, but he was super pissed off at me. I can only imagine what that particular entry is going to be like.

Persevering through the Dick Ages (3-5) really paid off because six has been a pretty epic age so far. Six-year-old Chooch is totally my bro.

Even though he totally drew this Friday night:

At least he didn’t draw me fat.

I wanted to get one last mini-shoot in before the Law Firm Walking Challenge started. (Today! But don’t worry – I already racked up 12,000 steps before noon). I’ve had this loose little vision in my head for awhile now to use some of my old Alternative Press magazines in a photo shoot with Chooch, but didn’t really know where I wanted to do it, so we drove around and drove around for a good hour until I saw a closed-up ice cream shop and made Henry pull over.

The Boylan’s is going to spill in 3…2….

Two kids rode past us on bikes just in time to witness me blow up like a bi-polar director.  Henry and I broke up. I orphaned Chooch.

It was a bad scene.

Henry thought he was in the clear after I lost my temper for the 87th time outside of this ice cream in Monongahela and screamed, “THAT’S IT, I’M DONE!” But then my other personality piped up and bellowed, “NO, WE ARE NOT GOING HOME! I’M NOT DONE!” So I made Henry drive back to the first location we were going to use until I got too scared of squatters. At this point, if there WERE any squatters there, they’d have been afraid of ME. Oh, I was horrible yesterday. Yet Chooch is so unfazed by it.

This is the Boylan’s after it’s third upending. Chooch was actually trying to read the magazine and kept getting pissed off at me when I would tell him to stop turning the pages.

Boylan’s puddle to the left.

Then I threw another fit and made Henry put everything back in the car, only to realize that we hadn’t taken any pictures in his second outfit. So doors were kicked up, trunks were slammed, various euphemisms for “vagina” and “person who engages in fellatio” were flung (possibly just by me), but the good news is that Chooch must have liked this outfit better, because he was suddenly very eager to cooperate.

So we kept taking pictures while Henry leaned against the car and pouted.

I swear to god, he’s not actually this forlorn. Almost all of these poses were his own idea, and he was running around happily in between shots. I SWEAR.

This wasn’t mid-motion, he was actually posed like this like a weirdo.

He said this was his “don’t even think about following me into my house” pose.

Rough life.

The “I just found gold” pose.

And then we were all bros again after that!

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Ever since Barb found out that Chooch blows a gasket when I get stuff in the mail (other than bills) and he doesn’t, she began sending him random cards and dollar bills in the mail, signed “Secret Friend.”

His perplexity seems to outweigh his delight in adding to his dollar collection. I am thoroughly enjoying watching him drag his hand through his hair, grit his teeth and yowl, “WHO IS SENDING ME THIS STUFF?!” And when she sent him a card wishing him luck on starting first grade? Holy shit, the apoplectic explosion was Pay Per View-worthy.

“HOW DO THEY KNOW I’M IN FIRST GRADE?!?” he wailed.

“Maybe I should stop,” Barb laughed when I told her how distressed this is making him. “I don’t want to cause any psychological damage!” (Yes, let’s blame Barb when Chooch grows up to be the next Unabomber, not me!)

“You should send him a picture of Gilad,” I instigated. (Gilad is the Israeli fitness guru behind the long-running aerobics program “Bodies In Motion” which, along with Slim Fast, helped me lose weight in time to be a junior bridesmaid in my aunt’s wedding when I was 12, after my grandma jiggled my underarms and flashed that disapproving frown I knew so well. Anyway, this show is still on in syndication and Chooch HATES HIM so bad that he has to leave the room.)

I guess she’s too afraid of pulling the wrong Jenga block from his psyche, so she sent him more anonymous cash, which he got yesterday.

“REALLY!? ANOTHER LETTER FROM SECRET FRIEND!?” he huffed. Then he kind of growled and shook his head.

I feel like if I had been sent secret mail as a child, I’d have been filled with joy and hope that it was my real mom sharing with me the modest income she was earning baking baguettes in France.

Chooch wrote this message on the back of the envelope. I guess we’re supposed to put it back in the mail. Minus the money, of course.

Shit, you’d think he was getting cat livers in the mail, not cash.

This has been wildly entertaining for me.

March, 2009. God, I miss that hoodie. I mean, those days. (?)

As of September 2012, our Chooch is a 6-year-old 1st grader on the fast track to becoming Corey Feldman’s Mouth character in “Goonies.” His rapier wit is practically parallel to most adults I know, which is oft amusing, but mostly mildly worrisome and endlessly irritating.

“I totally don’t remember being this ridiculous when I was your age,” I yelled in defeat Saturday night.

“You probably weren’t,” Chooch answered from the backseat of the car in his patented infuriatingly smug tone.

I now have to bribe him with real American dollars just to take his damn picture. I miss the days of him being 100% at my mercy.

But let’s face it, those days didn’t last very long.

But he sure is good at pulling off an angelic face, that’s for sure. Little jerk.

Surprisingly, this rock was chucked into the river and not at my face. We’re making progress. (Baby steps.)

(And then Henry reminds me that he learned everything from watching me, anyway.)

As much as Henry hates these pants, he was even more relieved that the red ones didn’t come in Chooch’s size. (I only checked one store though, Henry!)

Everyone’s always going on and on about how much Chooch looks just like Henry. OK, whatever. I get it. However, he is otherwise so much like me, it’s almost like a horror movie. Yesterday morning, in the Murder House, he and Henry were arguing about something ridiculous and it just kept getting more and more heated (on Chooch’s end only; Henry continued to calmly make breakfast through all of the huffing and puffing and door-slamming). Finally, at the threat of not getting the Regular Show DVD he had been eying up over the weekend, he decided it would behoove himself to apologize; so he did, but it came out in a “Please call Father Karras and have me the fuck exorcized” snarl, at which point he became even more agitated because he didn’t like the way Henry said, “OK.”

So this started a new sub-fight.

Chooch wailed, “You didn’t say that right!

No wonder why Mommy always fights with you!”

An innocent by-stander up until this point, I piped up and said, “Well, he’s not wrong, Henry.”

“Thanks, Erin,” Henry sighed, sliding a plate of eggs in front of me. I love how he multi-tasks.

FUN FACT: This is actually Chooch’s bed.