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.

Today is Chooch’s first day of 1st grade at a real school! Good riddance, Catholic bitch-moms*! Goodbye, daily heart palpitations! Sayonara, judgmental glares!

Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this all about me.

(*This is not directed at all Catholic moms. Even I am technically Catholic. Just the Catholic BITCH-moms from Chooch’s old school.

You know, the ones who follow “God’s Word” SO WELL.

Their example is the reason I consider religion to be a joke.)

Do you know how many kids came to Chooch’s birthday party last year? 4. Because those 4 kids have parents who didn’t hold my blog against Chooch. Almost no one else even RSVPd. Punish the kid for his mom’s sins. That’s awesome.

Chooch was so excited this morning.

He had orientation the other night and is thrilled to be going to a school that, oh I don’t know, looks like a school. And his little buddy from next door is in his class, so his dad suggested that we just alternate walking them both up the street to school. I am so all about that. Any day where I don’t have to put on a bra pre-8:00am is a good day.

No more tuition stress, being looked down upon, and feeling like the heathen outcast. And trust me, that was way before any of the blog drama happened, and I stand by every word I wrote that they so vehemently disagreed with – if you don’t want called out for being a dick, then don’t act like a dick. There’s a thought!

There is really nothing like a good, fresh start.

After I “ruined his life” on the bumper cars.

Henry and I took the day off today and while I’m sure he had grand visions of laying on the couch in his underwear all day, I planned his itinerary for him. Here, Henry is pictured frowning at the Jean Bonnet Tavern in Bedford, PA.

“You know, Henry, one day you’re going to wake up and realize you wasted your life being miserable,” I lectured.

“Yeah,” Chooch chimed in. “And having a girlfriend.”

This was Chooch, post-unicorn photo shoot. He is such a little snob.

Henry was gone all day on Saturday, helping out at Castle Blood. I thought, “Oh, this will be OK. Chooch and I can go off and have a cute little photo shoot, celebrate our independence, etc. etc.” But before Henry left, I called him back in the house to have him fetch the wheelchair and put it in the car for me. Independence could wait a few minutes.

“Do you think we can do this successfully?” I asked Chooch when we were on our way to the (damned) location.

He answered quite matter-of-factly, “By ourselves? No.” That kid knows what’s up.

Everything was great. We sang “Call Me Maybe” loudly and repeatedly en route. I even stopped at a gas station and bought him a drink! Look at me! Taking care of my kid’s needs! But then we rolled up on the designated site (Coulterville, an area where many of my photo shoots are located), and that was when I realized I had to lug a wheelchair; a unicorn mask; the camera bag; and a plastic bag filled with clowns, doll heads, an empty bottle of Old Crow and a jack in the box all on my own because my goddamn son is a fucking divo.

This is where Henry’s blue-collar arms would have come in handy.

Originally, I wanted to cross the train tracks and walk toward the river, because there are some really cool spots back there. But then I realized, “Holy shit, I can’t lift this wheelchair up to the tracks” so I started swearing and crying. We were going to take the pictures at the nearby cemetery and abandoned church after that, but Chooch was being totally uncooperative and we screamed, “I HATE YOU!” at each other with enough fury to raise the dead, and then not one but TWO trains passed us and we were both shook to the core because OMG WE ALMOST TRIED TO CROSS THOSE TRACKS AND WE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED.

That made me flip out even harder, and then Chooch started crying because he lost his (broken) sunglasses and I wouldn’t help him look for them because the trains were freaking me out so bad and all I wanted to do was push the fucking wheelchair back to the car (IT WAS ALL UPHILL, THANKS).

There are people who live around there. I sure hope they heard our histrionics. Especially when I threatened to orphan him and he snarled, “NOT IF I GO TO THE ORPHANGE FIRST.”

I was NOT going home. Not after driving all the way out there. So we stopped at McDonald’s (after I flipped out for the 79879876th time because the gas light was on and I couldn’t find a gas station and then when I did, I had to make an illegal turn to reach it) and I said out loud, “Fuck this. I’m getting a frappe. I goddamn earned it.” But first we had to wait for the oldest woman alive to send back all of her food and then proceed to sit there in her dumb minivan even after she got the right stuff, and I started yelling at her which made Chooch laugh to the point of tears, but then seriously say, “Mommy, she’s just an old lady.”

AND THEN THEY GAVE ME MY FRAPPE WITHOUT A MOTHERFUCKING STRAW. I didn’t want to park and go inside to get one, because I couldn’t leave Chooch alone in the car (I checked the manual real quick for that one) and he didn’t have his shoes on plus I was all sweaty and tear-soaked and had dirt all over me from god only knows what. So I drank that bitch without a straw and had chocolate syrup all over my face; I can assure you I didn’t really care at that point. I had accepted my new role as the poster woman for Defeat.

Did I leave out the part where I called Henry 87 times while he was trying to cut doors in walls at Castle Blood, screaming at him because I didn’t know how to fold the wheelchair and it was THE WORST DAY EVER and I might as well just KILL MYSELF? Oh, well that totally didn’t happen.

We ended up going to the place where the Easter pictures happened. (Click that link if you haven’t seen those photos; Henry has on makeup in them!) At first glance, I thought the abandoned structures had been demolished, but really it was just because the area was so overgrown with frondescence that it was no longer visible from the road. Where was my machete when I really needed it?

I think I lost 10 pounds that day from crying, sweating, raging & hiking thru weeds and mud with a wheelchair. And we both have cuts and scrapes all over us from trampling through walls of jagger bushes, with Chooch wailing, “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THISSSSSS” and me screaming, “IT’S FOR ART, STFU!!”

By the time Henry came home, Chooch and I were both languid on the couch, eyes glazed over, looking extremely pathetic. “Can we go out to eat?” Henry asked. “I worked so hard today and I’m starving.” With my eyes, I mentally castrated him.

Later that night, Chooch was telling Henry something unrelated to the photo shoot, and added, “I think that was when Mommy was in the car, crying.”

This was a nice, low-key weekend which for once consisted of NO FIGHTING! And I mean between Chooch and me. It was nice to relax and be languid instead of being all GO GO GO like I usually am on weekends.

Olympics, horror movies, cemeteries and red velvet milkshakes. Yes. That was all I needed.

Chooch started nosin’ through some of my old stuff in the bedroom while I was focusing on ruining Henry’s nap, when suddenly he laughed behind me and exclaimed, “What IS this?!”

Oh god, please don’t let it be some archaic vibrator or drug paraphernalia, I thought.

But it was just an old Bobby Brown cassette single, probably purchased at my favorite record store, Waves.

“Oh shit, we have to play this!” I screamed, while Henry was trying to convince Chooch we don’t have a tape player because he didnt want to deal with it. (You know, trying to nap and all.)

So then I spent the next 15 minutes struggling to mend an old tape player while Henry begged us both to just go downstairs. Finally, I achieved success! (And also a large quotient of dust in my nostrils.)

Finally, my bedroom was pregnant with the tinny tones of Bobby Brown crooning about humpin’ around while Henry rolled his weary eyes.

“Mommy, what’s this?” Chooch asked innocently, handing me a holographic bullet-like object, which for a moment I actually did mistake for a lady toy.

“Oh, that’s just a lighter that doesnt work anymore,” I said, but as I absent-mindedly struck it, a flame squirted out. “Oh, shit, it does work!” I laughed, tossing it back at Chooch’s chest.

“Yeah, so give it back to him, that’s great,” Henry mumbled, dragging a hand down his dark eye circles, at which point Chooch chucked the lighter at his face and we died laughing. And by “we,” I of course just mean Chooch and me. Henry has to relearn that function after the accident. And by “accident,” I of course mean out relationship.

There was no point to this, but Andrea is coming to Pittsburgh this week (she arrives after midnight!) and I am hyper! And I have at least three posts to write about my beloved Big Butler Fair but can’t find the time so I’m all stressed out but then I remembered, wait—this isn’t my job and no one cares.

Speaking of my job, I’m off all week!

Or: Breakfast at Tom’s Diner

I wanted a real breakfast, and it was all I could think about last night at work. So when Henry and Chooch came to pick me up last night, I informed Chooch that he and I would be going to Tom’s Diner the next morning so mommy could stuff her nutrition-deprived face with nutritional eggs covered in grease, grease, cheese, and grease. He immediately protested — what a sonofabitch.

He never wants to do anything I want to do!!

But by morning, I was able to gently coax him into putting on his shoes and walking the several short blocks to Tom’s. On the way there, he randomly posited, “What if there were Chooch seeds, and when you planted them, a bunch of Chooches were born?” At first, my response was, “I would scream and run” but then some of my friends pointed out later that my pedometer wouldn cheat me out of steps if I ran, so I guess I would maniacally march — straight to the BANK after I sold those newborn bitches!

Chooch reads everything now. Signs, newspapers, magazines, Henry’s Craigslist ads for “Clean Buxom Ginger Wanted For Discreet Playdates,” and oh yeah — books too. At Tom’s he read aloud the “Watch Your Step” sign that was behind me and of course I half-assedly praised him while shoveling my maw with a plate of oily A.M. food fare that I really couldn’t even taste but my body was screaming CARBS!!!!!!! with sheer, shoulder-shimmying ecstacy.

And then Chooch burped. Loudly and with great gusto. I reprimended him and said, “I’m going to tell daddy!” and I don’t know why I always resort to that because Lord knows Henry ain’t no threat, ya’ll.

“Don’t you dare,” Chooch warned. And then, in this deep and low tone pregnant with menace, he growled, “Watch your step.”

OMG.

There was some construction worker sitting a few booths over that was basically choking on his food trying not to laugh out loud at our exchange.

After breakfast, Chooch bought me a revolver keychain out of one of the gumball machines!

Now the other one we use as a Christmas tree ornament will have a  mate. Oh my god, it’s practically a set!

On the way home, we saw Purple Pants, who was not wearing her purple pants but was wearing a red sweatshirt that I have never seen her wear before! Chooch managed to get her to bark a terse “hello” and you would have thought some asshole politician just kissed his head, he was so excited.

Me: If you had to see Daddy poop his pants on one ride, what ride would it be?

Chooch: Jack Rabbit because of the double dip!

(We both pause here to relish the image of Henry pooping his pants, leaving his seat, and then smashing the poop upon returning to his seat. We’re all children here.)

Me: Why do you like Garfield’s Nightmare? That’s the worst ride there.

Chooch, making a super angry face: WORST?! It has all those statue stuff!

Me: Aren’t you afraid the boat is going to tip over? (That might actually salvage the fun factor, really.)

Chooch, shaking his head like I’m a fool: No.

Me: How safe did you feel riding the Jack Rabbit with your brother, Blake?

Chooch: Why do you type my name as ‘Chooch’ on everything?

Me: Because that’s your name. Just answer the question.

Chooch, making some gross boy noise: It’s cold in here, don’t you think?

Me: Stay focused. (Repeating the original question.)

Chooch, sounding extremely unsure: Really safe?

(That means NOT SAFE.)

Chooch, seeing this picture: Oh, crap.*

Me: Talk about riding rides with [our friends’ daughter] Katelyn.

Chooch: Aw, come on. Not fun! [Laughing giddily, which means OMG ALL OF THE FUN.]

Me: Then why did you get mad when her cousin wanted to ride with her?

Chooch: No I didn’t! I did not! ….how did you know that?

Me: Seriously, how badly did you want to put your arm around Katelyn on the baby roller coaster?

Chooch, blushing furiously and smiling while struggling to maintain his faux-anger: I did not!

(*Chooch, after re-reading this, cried out, “I did not say ‘crap’ there! I said ‘shit’!” Trying to keep Child Services out of our house, OK KID?)

mommy took a picture of grandma who was annoyed of mommy

Me: How pissed off do you think grandma was having to spend a whole day with us idiots?

Chooch, laughing: Uh, fucking* pissed off. Grandma wouldn’t go on everything. Probably because her foot hurts.

(*Seriously! Child Services, kid!)

Me: Look at Laura in the background!

Chooch: Looks like she’s drinking something out of a pee cup.

Me: What do you think you were thinking about in this picture — Katelyn?

Chooch, panicked: No! Now you made me forget what I was thinking because you had to type in Katelyn, thanks a lot!

Me: Talk about how dumb daddy looks in this picture.

Chooch: Oh, I got a great one. It looks like daddy is eating that pizza and he’s going to poop in his pants. And Blake is laughing and smiling because daddy looks like he’s going to poop his pants.

Me, laughing: I mean, look at daddy’s face!

Chooch, pointing in a demonstrative manner: I know, it looks like he’s pooping in his pants! I already said that!

Me: How bad does daddy suck at playing games? Isn’t he the WORST DAD EVER for not winning you all kinds of BIG MAJESTIC stuffed animals?

Chooch: It made me sad.

Me: He totally sucks. I bet Jonny Craig would have won you the BIGGEST STUFFED ANIMAL THERE.

(Probably because he would have needed something to transport his heroin & ego in.)

Me: What was your favorite ride?

Chooch: Uh, the Jack Rabbit.

(I think this is the only ride whose name he can remember.)

Me: Even after you fell down the ramp and scraped your knee and cheekbone?

Chooch: Blake fell too!

Me: Did he really?

Chooch: No, he didn’t really. I just like to say that.

I wanted to stay there at Kennywood but daddy would not let us sleep over at Kennywood.

And this concludes Chooch’s first Oh Honestly, Erin guest post, mostly because we have both lost interest.

I’m starting to think that Chooch acts like an asshole on Saturdays because he goes all week with being with just one of us since I work at night, and then all of a sudden Saturday arrives and it’s a parental double team on his bitchass.

He’s fine until the evening, at which point he totally overdoses on our dual presence and suffers an emotional meltdown.

First, his nemesis was Henry, so he vowed to have a yard sale in order to pawn him off on some poor fatherless sucker.

“And then hopefully Jonny Craig will drive by and be our new dad, RIGHT MOMMY?

!”

I was about to agree with raucous cheering, but Henry interjected snidely.

“Is he even allowed to drive?”

That’s a good point, although he does have a song called “I’m Jonny Craig, Bitch, and I Drive In Reverse” (Hi, I’ve been telling the Internet since 2008 that he’s a douchebag.)

Anyway, then I had the nerve to laugh at Chooch who was sitting on his little Cars chair by the front door, yelling about how he legit hates his life and this is THE WORST DAY EVER, so he angrily grabbed another piece of paper and drew up my walking papers.

“They can take BOTH OF YOU for two cents!” he spat as he scrawled out the new for sale sign with a fistful of fury. And then, “Stop LAUGHING AT ME!!!!”

He taped them to the front door and began screaming to all of Brookline that he had put both parents up on the market.

I like that I’m referred to as Erin, not Mommy.

Me: I’m going to start calling you Surly Shirley.
Chooch, totally spitting vitriol: Then I’m going to call you Jersey Shorely.

Damn. I don’t even know what that means, but sick burn, sonnnn.

The waitress at Sylvester and Tweety’s gave Chooch this drawing thing to entertain him (news flash: nothing placates my child).

“Here, let me write something,” I said, swiping it from him.

“Oh, please don’t write Jonny Craig,” Chooch sighed with exasperation right as my hand was perched to draw a heart with Jonny’s name inside.

“Dammit!” I cried out dejectedly, and then, “How did you know?!”

“Oh, come on,” Henry mumbled, insinuating that the whole Internet would have guessed what I was going to write.

I guess I need to work on my predictability.

People on Facebook keep posting a link to an article about “Could Your Child Be a Psychopath?” or something similar, but I refuse to click on it because I’m afraid it’s about my own kid.

Chooch was having a really emotional, angry night. He oscillated between being hyperactively fidgety to over-sensitive and touchy to blood-curdlingly fearsome. At one point, he wailed, “You used to be my best mom, but now you’re just the WORST!” before running away from Henry’s soothing pleas to calm down.

I heard him come out of his bedroom long enough to bellow, “STOP TALKING TO ME! I’M STRESSED OUT!” and then he slammed his door.

Boy. That was really great.

He’s not a psychopath. I know. However, he is highly theatrical with a loose grip on his emotions. And then he calmed down and went to bed.

But I still won’t click on that link.

Earlier at work, Lee said to me, “How pissed would you be if Chooch woke up on Mother’s Day and said, ‘I wish we could have two Father’s Days instead’?”

“I would be so pissed!” I cried. “I’d pack a bag and leave, sleep in my car if I had to.”

Amber chimed in to tell Lee to stop being mean to me, and he defensively said, “I’m not being mean! Chooch just likes Henry better!”

I was already starting to bristle, but then Lee added, “It’s because Henry is a better roller skater” and then I almost died of boiling fury.

Henry, Henry, Henry!

***

In “I Have a Child” news, Chooch has been really been a literate whiz these last few months. His teacher has stopped to tell us multiple times about how much he’s advanced with reading this year and it definitely shows at home. He wants to read EVERYTHING. When Bill, Jessi and Tammy were here for his birthday weekend, they took him to the Pittsburgh Comicon and he came home with several comic books, which he has been devouring ever since.

I can’t even tell you how happy this makes me. He’s already more advanced than Henry!