Monday was library day at preschool and Chooch came home with this bright pink book about praying. Either they don’t have any secular books to offer, or my child has chosen a decidedly different path than my own.

I’ll admit, I had my reservations about sending him to preschool at a Catholic school. (He’ll be going to a public elementary school, though.) We just don’t really do religion here. I mean, he came home from his first day and told me about the song that they learned, which included an “Amen.”

“I don’t even know what that means!” Chooch said. And I didn’t really know what to say, to be honest.

It’s not that I’m a devil worshipper. Yes, I make my sacrilegious jokes and I take the Lord’s name in vain almost as much as I kick Henry in the nards.

But I guess a lot of that is just part of my facade.

***

When I was a kid, I was into that religion shit. I went to church every Saturday night with my Pappap. Even when I was a teenager. On a Saturday night. It was usually just the two of us, though sometimes my step-dad would join us if he wasn’t going to make Sunday mass (and we hated when he would he would tag along because that meant we couldn’t blow that popsicle stand straight after Communion like we normally would; with my step-dad there, we’d have to leave after the Priest). And sometimes my aunt Susie (my Pappap’s youngest daughter) would come along depending on which restaurant we’d be dining at afterward. (There’d be a 99% chance she’d grace us with her presence if we were going to Napoli, because she lived for their osso bucco.)

But I just went because it was something that my Pappap and I did together, so it wasn’t a drag. It was nice.

It was tradition.

It also wasn’t something that was forced on me, and it wasn’t used as a threat against me. (Although I do remember a particular scene of my childhood where my mom sat me down and made me watch “The Exorcist,” saying that this was what was going to happen to me if I didn’t stop being an asshole.) I was enrolled in CCD (a/k/a Sunday School) because I was part of a Catholic family and it was the natural course of things.

And  I enjoyed going to CCD. Especially around the time fifth grade rolled around, because the focus shifted from prayer memorization and learning Confessional formalities to more of a Biblical history lesson. We had an instructor who would give us tests. Isn’t that sick? That I actually enjoyed taking tests on Biblical times? I guess I never really looked at it in terms of faith or spirituality; to me it was more of a history course. Learning about Moses and the Red Sea, Noah’s Ark, the Ten Commandments, Cain and Abel – all that shit fascinated me. Some of it was horrifying, all that murder and pestilence – and even as a child I loved my horror. My Grandma Kelly (who is extremely devout) caught wind of this and started buying me these little religious books for children. I ate that shit up.

I was baptized, made my First Holy Communion, and did the whole Confirmation rigamarole. I had a rosary and knew how to use it.

I think I did believe in God as a child. But then my Pappap died when I was sixteen. Whatever stock I had in God? It was replaced with soul-crushing resentment. Weekly mass stopped for me. Even Christmas mass was eschewed. My mom and I would pretend to go to midnight mass so we wouldn’t get stuck going in the morning with my step-dad. Meanwhile, we’d go to my mom’s office and just sit there for an hour.

I never really found a way to get that faith back, if I ever had any at all, so I began making disparaging comments and insults about “your God” as a lame defense.

As an adult, I believe that we carve our own paths. I don’t look to some imaginary astral projection to help guide me through life. I don’t need the fear of God to get me to choose right from wrong. I don’t believe in Heaven and Hell. But that’s just me.

Even though I’ve been on this atheist path all these years, I never really lost interest in the history part of religion. In college, I took some classes on the origins of Christianity, and still found that I was fascinated by it. This obviously wasn’t your grandma’s Wednesday night Bible Study.

I was so thoroughly sucked into those classes (I never even sold back the books) that I even considered minoring in religious studies. Then, you know, I never finished college. Because I never finish anything.

***

“Today we did that thing you do when you exercise, Mommy,” Chooch said from the backseat of the car on Wednesday. “Except it was a little different. We didn’t say ‘Namaste.'” And sometimes, while he’s on the floor playing with his Batcave, I catch him murmuring pieces of Jesus-y songs that he’s being taught.

If my son chooses to believe that there is a God and decides to explore that further, I will support him. Because sometimes I do wish I had something to believe in.

I didn’t really know what to do with myself while the house was empty, but then I realized it would be a great time to do some yoga without having cars crashed into my shins and chaturanga’ing onto spiny plastic Batman ammo. I rolled out the mat and right as I got started, my cat Don came over and plopped himself down between my feet, which he then began bunny-kicking.

I looked around and noticed ALL THE CATS were out. With the exception of Nicotina (the dummy who refused to run even after Chooch CUT HER EAR with SCISSORS), they mostly stay hidden until Chooch goes to bed. This morning, they were all out, exploring the house sans Chooch. It was kind of nice to get to spend time with my furry kids.

Even if one of them was marring my ability to do yoga just as badly as my four-year-0ld does.

Then I wrote in my blog without interruption and even HAD A PHONE CONVERSATION without the need to lock myself in the bathroom. It was odd. And awfully disorienting. AND I LOVED IT.

Henry came home from work so we could both go across the street, under a sheath of a loving Catholic relationship, to get Chooch from school. A parade of minivans and SUVs lined the fire lane; we walked past all the mothers talking loudly into cell phones from the driver seat and sat down on the steps. I was a nervous ball of energy – hands wringing, legs bouncing.

“Wait – I was supposed to pack extra clothes in his backpack in case of an accident, huh?” I asked Henry, remembering suddenly.

“You ass! This would be the day he’d pee his pants, too,” Henry pointed out. And you know, thank god for that Henry. Last night, I thought I had everything ready for Chooch’s first day. Then I came downstairs this morning and saw that Henry had added to my pile things I never would have remembered.

I think Friday is show and tell. Hopefully I remember that. I anticipate a ton of future “Mom, you FORGOT THIS again”s. I only do thing half-right, or not at all.

The doors behind us opened, emitting a burst of excited kid voices. Chooch ran up to me, HUGGED ME, and said, “I missed you!”

MY SON DID THAT.

WITHOUT BEING PRODDED.

And he was smiling so big! And his pants didn’t have a urine-soaked bull’s eye!

“We had to sing a Jesus song,” he said when we were in the house. “And the end part was ‘Amen!'” he sang, bringing his hands together in a soft clap. “And I was like, ‘I don’t even know what that MEANS.”

He said everyone sat on the rug and the teacher asked, “What do you help your daddy do?”

“I said I help my daddy pick up clothes,” Chooch said, mocking his own voice.

Oh, that’s funny. Because last time I checked, I was the one picking up disgusting father-son boxer briefs and carelessly strewn socks from ALL PARTS OF THE HOUSE.

When I was in Kindergarten, I told the class my real mom lived in Paris and was coming back for me one day, so I guess I should check myself before wagging the finger.

I just asked him if he was excited to go back to school on Friday and he shouted “Yeah!” in a very annoyed tone because I interrupted his goddamn Adventure Time show.

I think we’ll be OK.

All summer, when people would ask, “What are you going to do with yourself once Chooch starts preschool?” I’d usually respond with, “Whatever the fuck I want!” or “Pop open the wine bottle!

” or “Have wanton sex with the best powdered-wigged handy men!”

What I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to be one of those lame moms who CRY.

And then this morning, I was one of those lame moms who CRY.

I woke up with massive butterflies in my stomach, churning the nausea like an over-cooked stew.  I panicked in the kitchen, trying to figure out what would be an acceptable “snack” for him to bring. Then I woke him up with shaking hands, and he eagerly rolled out of bed. He got a bath with no argument, brushed his teeth with no argument, got dressed with no argument. He was READY.

“When can we go?” he whined.

“It’s still too early.”

“Then let’s sit outside!” And so we did, and he excitedly watched the school buses drive past; and he watched Robin’s son Brandon walk past with his backpack, en route to the school up the street.

At about 7:45, I noticed other kids walking to the school across the street, so he shrugged in his Batman backpack and I walked him over to his classroom. He hung up his backpack, found his (Ring-inspired) name tag and placed it on the board.

I guess I expected him to cower behind my legs for a few minutes, for me to have to gently prod him to find a toy to play with.

There was only one other kid there at that time – a girl, so he wanted no part in joining her at the dollhouse.

“Oh, Zachary’s here!” he exclaimed, when the kid-genius with glasses shuffled into the room. “You can leave now,” Chooch added, tossing me a “look.”

His teacher came over and stood next to me. “He sure is sweet,” she said, looking at him adoringly. I’m sure that look will dissipate here soon.

“I’m trying not to cry,” I admitted, and she gave me that “aw, you’re so cute” laugh that is usually annoying, but comforted me in this case.

“He’ll be fine,” she promised.

I’m relieved that he’s mostly all healed; that was one less thing to worry about today, because who wants their kid to start school not looking like themselves?

(Although, he did get his hair cut yesterday and I think it makes him look even older now. Which is shocking to me. I catch him out of the corner of my eye and think it’s a little Blake sitting there.) If you look closely, you can see the puncture wounds in his bottom lip, but all the scabby mess is gone and the gums above his front teeth aren’t bloody and swollen anymore, either. He’s still going to the dentist tomorrow for x-rays, just to be sure his adult teeth weren’t affected.

I snagged him a few minutes later and begged for a hug.

“Not yet!” he hissed, and my heart soared a little because I thought he meant he didn’t want me to leave yet, but he was talking about the hug. “OK, fine,” he grumbled in annoyance and acquiesced with the hug-doling.

“I’ll be back to pick you up!” I reminded him, but he had already been engulfed by a group of boys with dump trucks.

I cried the whole way home. (Granted, I just have to walk across the street, but still. I cried the whole way!)

Friday was preschool orientation and I was more nervous than any child in that room, I think. Just stepping over the threshold to the school made my stomach clutch up a little. I didn’t really have any awful school experiences, but I consistently suffered from First Day Syndrome. And now, at 31, I was feeling all those same overwhelming emotions again, while Chooch bounded excitedly ahead of Henry and me.

The teacher greeted us as soon as we walked into the room, and I was obliged to explain immediately that Chooch had had an accident. His lip and  the gums above his front teeth were still swollen and bloody; he looked a mess.

  And of course this bothered me like it was my own face. Chooch immediately ran over to the rug and began helping a boy put together a puzzle.

Henry and I stood awkwardly by the door. It was un-air conditioned and pushing 100 degrees. I had flashbacks to watching a video of the Bishop in one of those same classrooms when Henry and I were there four years ago for Baptism class.

So now not only was I trying not to pass out, I was trying not to laugh as well.

I was happy Henry wore jeans and not his hem-shredded shorts. The other dads in the room (there were only three) looked very blue-collar too, so I didn’t feel so bad having the Faygo King next to me.

While the kids played, the parents were instructed to sit around a table, where we got to follow along as the teacher read aloud from the information packet. It was utterly boring, and of course I was sitting in the teacher’s line of sight  so she saw me every time I failed at stifling a yawn.

I tried not to look around and judge the other parents, but come on. It’s me! Erin!  There was one older broad who I actually thought was the teacher’s aid but apparently she’s just a know-it-all with older kids so she’s quite seasoned at this preschool thing. She kept interrupting the teacher as we all sat around a U-shaped table in little miniature plastic chairs that weren’t wide enough to support an Olson’s ass, let alone my double-wide.

Chooch mostly played by himself while we sat at the table, but I noticed there were other solo players too so I didn’t feel too bad. Chooch told us later that he didn’t want to play with the group of kids who were playing together because they were playing with girl shit. I noticed that Chooch was the only kid, aside from a girl, who cleaned up on his own before pulling a new toy off the shelf.

At one point, I turned around and he had just dumped over a bucket of REAL Fisher Price Little People! The kinds that were discontinued because kids had to be assholes and choke on them! I LOVED those toys when I was little and there was an entire mound of them (plus the HOUSE! The one with the DOORBELL!) right near my feet but I was stuck sitting at that table with the other parents, learning about how I’m responsible for raising $83748478907057 by the end of the school year. Actually, I didn’t learn that. Henry did. I wasn’t listening. But apparently in the folder we brought home that I haven’t gone through yet, there are a whole bunch of fundraising options, so this is going to be a fantastic year. I can’t even sell my art, and now I’m expected to sell wrapping paper? Can’t I find my own (semi-legal) way to raise the money?

Toward the end of the hour, all the kids got to replace at us at the table (I couldn’t stand straight after being hunched over for 45 minutes) and the teacher introduced them to some lame frog puppet that will be helping them learn their letters throughout the year. She walked around and let everyone shake his hand. 75% of the kids wanted no part of that whatsoever. One girl went so far as to hug her mom’s legs when it was her turn to meet the frog. What a loser. There’s one kid who I know I’m going to have a problem with. He has shaggy red hair and is the smallest kid in the glass. He makes up for that by showing off EVERY FUCKING SECOND. So of course, instead of shaking the frog’s hand, he lunged for it and gave it a huge hug.

On cue, all the parents belted out a collective, “Aw!

”

ALL THE PARENTS BUT ME. I’m onto this kid.

When the teacher returned the frog to its home on the shelf, some of the kids whined. Chooch turned around and said loudly to me, “It’s just a puppet.” He looked (and sounded) so disgusted and confused as to why these kids would care that much. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

There’s another kid I hate. He’s the dorky kid whose extreme lack of social cues makes him look like an extrovert. He had something nerdy and robotic to say about everything, causing all the parents to laugh. I didn’t laugh because to me, he was just really fucking annoying.

There is a girl with blond curls and glasses who is so adorable and it pains me to admit that because her mom is the older know-it-all broad.

The teacher had a bunch of animal cut-outs and each child got to choose which one they wanted. I guess they’re going to be name tags eventually, I wasn’t really comprehending. Chooch chose a sheep. All the other kids began coloring diligently, so Chooch grabbed a black Crayon and began grinding it into the sheep, up and down, side to side, without even watching what he was doing.

I glanced around the table. All the other kids were really into it, making pigs pretty with a rainbow of colors, or meticulously coloring inside the lines with realistic shades.

Chooch was turning his sheep into a deleted scene from The Ring.

I noticed other moms were helping their kids, so I whispered, “Hey, why don’t you add some color to it?”  So he grabbed the brown Crayon. I finally  got him to add a yellow streak down the middle of the sheep, but he was completely over it by that point.

While he was mauling the paper sheep with black wax, I had to “interview” him. Each parent was given a paper with three questions on it to ask the kid. I guess they’re going to be hung up around the room or something. Again, this is where my listening skills (or lack thereof) get me in jams.  For twenty years I’ve been telling myself I need to pay better attention.

Anyway, the first sentence said: I like ________________________.

“Chooch,” I began. “What are some things you like?”

“Jason Voorhees.”

“OK, well I’m not putting that because you’re going to school IN A CHURCH. And you’re FOUR.”

“Michael Myers. Zombies.”

Finally, I just wrote “putting together puzzles, swimming*, and going to the Halloween store.” (*I guess I don’t know my child as well as I thought.)

Later, Henry was all, “You should have just put Jason and zombies!” and was all critical of me. If this wasn’t some goddamn Catholic school, I would have. But the last thing I need is some teacher thinking there’s something “wrong” with Chooch and trying to coax us all into attending church. And maybe things would be OK, but still – I’m  not taking any chances.

There was another coloring project after that but he had peaced out by then. I got him to half-color it and then handed it off to the teacher’s aid, at which point we were dismissed into the fresh air, of which I took a huge gulp.

Did I mention I signed up to volunteer for the class Halloween party?

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING.

Chooch and I were really looking forward to meeting Kara and her son Harland at the spray park.  When I woke Chooch up yesterday, he even cheered. It was supposed to be a fun day splashing in water. NOT BLOOD.

Enjoy that rainbow while it lasts, my friend. Soon it will be dripping in blood.

The trauma happened shortly after this photo was taken. Chooch was a few feet away from me. He was just standing there, playing in one of the jets of water. I turned my back for .000005 seconds, which was just long enough for him to trip over his foot (literally – he told me) and land on his face.

Chooch is a four-year-old boy. We can’t walk a block without him tripping and sailing through the air at least eleven times. In fact, we were just at the spray park on Monday with my friend Lisa and within 15 seconds of kicking off his sandals, he wiped out under the rainbow arches. That time he was lucky to walk away with only a scrape on his knee.

So yesterday, when I first heard him crying, my immediate response was to say, “You’re alright! Shake it off!” But then I saw the blood pouring from his mouth. My heart sank and my legs went lax. I somehow managed to run over to him without spilling any of my own blood, and it was then that I saw it was worse than I expected.

He bit straight through his bottom lip and blood was just pumping right on out. He looked like a vampire after a kill. I kept trying to hold a towel up to his mouth, but he’d only back away in fear. The “life guard” handed me a brown napkin. Because that was going to get it done. One generic napkin. Then Chooch kept running away from me because he thought I had ice.

“I don’t want ice! I’m OK!” he kept screaming. He was not OK. He really 100% was not OK. The spray park quickly cleared out, thanks to Chooch’s bloody fire hydrant of a mouth wound.

Aside from Kara, all that remained was an older woman who was there with her grandson, and a mom who was barely paying attention thanks to the cell phone stuck to her ear.

Oh, and the life guard. He was really awesome and had these amazing powers to be REALLY HELPFUL while sitting on his ass under an umbrella. Not that there was much that could have been done at that point, but Jesus Christ, show a bit of empathy.

I finally wrangled Chooch long enough to put his shoes back on. “I DON’T WANT MY SHIRT ON!” he wailed. Because being clothed was his biggest issue at the moment. I just kept repeating, “Calm down, breathe” over and over, but I think it was mostly for my own benefit. Jesus Christ, it was a nightmare. I just paused while typing this and had an aural flashback of the screaming.

“I’m trying so hard not to freak out,” I whispered to Kara. And thank god she was there because had I been alone, I don’t know what I would have done. Maternal instinct does not kick in for me in times of crisis. All I want to do is piss my pants and suck my thumb, to be honest.

Once he and I were in the car, I lost it. We both sobbed all during the short car ride home. A few minutes later, Henry came home from work, after receiving 158256454 hysteric phone calls from me.

Chooch’s doctor called him back by then.

(See?! I wouldn’t have even thought to call the doctor. Thank god for Henry.)

“They want us to take him to Children’s just to get checked out,” Henry said, hanging up. Chooch had relaxed by then, was busy watching TV. He didn’t seem to mind too much that he had to go to the hospital because the memory of playing games in the waiting room clearly overshadows the memory of getting HEAD STAPLES the last time he was there.

I couldn’t go with them. It’s horrible and selfish, but it’s true. I knew he would be better off with Henry, because I have this really fantastic ability of adding unneeded anxiety to any situation. I had already freaked him out enough that day. It’s so hard for me to be Strong Parent during accidents. Especially gory accidents. The whole time they were gone, I honestly sat stock-still on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. I was completely numb. My hands quaked every time I tried to pick something up.

The verdict is that his lip is fine, albeit swollen like a boxer’s. Bu the doctor is the most concerned about his two front teeth. I didn’t realize he had struck the ground with them, and now they’re a little loose. The doctor wants us to make him a dentist appointment in two weeks to get x-rayed and make sure that he didn’t do damage to the teeth above.

Soft diet until then. Good thing the kid loves yogurt.

He was in good spirits when I came home from work last night. I kept giving him pitiful looks, to which he would answer, “I’m fine! I’m fine, OK?!” He has a thick smudge of dried blood along his gum line, making it look like he just bit into chocolate fudge. I tried to wipe off some of the crusted blood from the corners of his mouth this morning, and made him swish with warm salt water.

“So what, you’re like a doctor now or something?” he asked snidely. At least he hasn’t lost his sarcastic tilt.

***

Last night, we were sitting on the couch together.

“You should have catched me,” he said.

That may have been the biggest “ouch” moment my heart has been dealt to date.

“I want you to sing,” Chooch said urgently.

Being the monkey that I am,  I threw out some “lalala”s and hoped that would pacify him enough to let me resume child negligence.

“No!” he argued. “I want you to sing while standing on a chair! And a piece of wood!”

I let this sink in for a few seconds before asking him if he meant a stage.

“Yes! I want you to sing on a stage.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Not ever,” I mumbled.

“Yes it is going to happen!” he fought, voice elevating an octave. A childish volley of ‘No I’m not‘s and ‘Yes you are‘s happened next.

“Why do you want me to sing on a stage?” I asked, always having suspicions when it comes to my kid.

“So I can yell BOOOOO!” he sneered.

What a fucking bully.

All week, we had plans to go to Laurel Caverns on Sunday. Because that’s just where good parents want to take their hyperactive four-year-olds: 40 feet down into the earth, surrounded by 16,000 ways to injure or kill oneself. 

But first, I had to go through this panic-riffic hour where I was convinced Henry was dead. He has a second job on Sunday mornings, just to give us some extra cash since I screwed us all up by not working for so long. He usually gets home from that job around 7am. 

It was nearly 9am. I began to notice he wasn’t here only when I found things he did wrong around the house and my need to berate him began to grow impatient. I called him and it went to voicemail. 

Then I called him 28 more times and texted him saying, “If you’re not dead, please reply.” 

At this point, I really started to feel scared. All the things he does around the house and in life in general began skull-fucking me and my stomach took on a fast descent as I realized, “Holy shit. I might have to do things for myself. Who’s going to make my non compos cards?!”  I kept envisioning his work van, engulfed in flames, and how bleak my future looked when  filled with chores and financial responsibility and single parenting (yeah right, I’d find a new daddy, and fast). 

I was trying not to get too crazy around Chooch, because he’d only end up feeding off my panic and then there would be two hyperactive people panicking and crying and wondering who they’d find to take care of them.It was complete pandemonium inside my chest. 

“Can we still go to the cave even if Daddy doesn’t come home?” Chooch asked, quite sincerely. 

“Yes, but let’s make sure he’s alive first.” Then I had horrible visions of me taking Chooch to the caverns without Henry and one of us “accidentally” pushing the other down the Devil’s Staircase. Maybe we would just go to the park instead. 

Henry wasn’t dead. He pulled into the parking lot a little bit before 10 and Chooch and I raced across the street to meet him. I could see the look of fear on Henry’s face, because we never go out of our way to greet him. He probably thought the house was on fire. 

“I thought you were DEAD!” I yelled. Turns out it was his phone that was dead, though. Or he had it off while he was having sex for money, whichever. Plus, he didn’t get to his job until late because he slept in.  I was really clingy for the rest of the day. No, that’s a lie. Only for about an hour, then it went back to the normal with me bitterly suggesting that he just stop breathing altogether. 

So yeah, Laurel Caverns! I love that damn place, but haven’t been there since 2004 with my brother Corey when we stalked a yuppie couple in the gift shop. We made sure Chooch peed before entering the caverns, and then had a few minutes to kill in the gift shop. There were people already lined up, waiting for the tour to the start and I noticed they kept looking at Chooch with expressions seeped in disdain and disgust. 

“These people already hate us,” I whispered to Henry. “Let’s make sure we stay in the back.” 

And you know, for as chatty as my son is, he really wasn’t all that bad. There were moments where the guide would stop us to point out stalagmites and Chooch would start to fidget. I mean, I was fidgeting too so I can’t really hate on my kid. He was pretty good about not talking while the guide was talking though, which is more than I can say for the family with two kids behind us who ended up being the collective Chooch of the group. The kids weren’t really being that bad, just asking questions, which inspired both parents to shush them with such intensity that it was like the entire Slytherin house was behind me hissing. Their dad was some geology geek and really wanted to make sure everyone knew it. 

Ten minutes into the caverns, Chooch started to do a slight pee writhe. “I have to pee,” he whispered. Let me remind you that we were in a CAVERN. Even if pissing over a ravine was an option, the shitty family behind us kept lingering behind to take pictures so there was no whizzing opportunity. 

He made it sort of almost to the end before doing a pee-jig so grand scale, the tour guide stopped mid-sentence and asked, “Do you guys need to leave?” Luckily, it was at a point near the end of the route where there was a quick way to the exit. 

You best believe I stayed for the rest of the tour. Laurel Caverns is my jam. 

Not having Henry and Chooch there for the rest made me focus more on the rest of the group and I realized they were all assholes. Except for this one guy who pointed out a bat to me. 

I spotted the top of Henry’s bandanna undulating through the gift shop when the tour ended. Then I saw the rest of his face and it looked strained and annoyed. Apparently, Chooch made it to the bathroom. Just not the toilet. So Henry had to wash Chooch’s shorts the best he could in the sink and dry them under the dryer. 

“And now I’m not wearing any underwear!” Chooch cheered. Just add negligent mom to the list of other flaws I was given yesterday. 

Pissy Pants. (I was referring to Henry, but I suppose it works for either.) 

Walking out into the parking lot, I was bitching angrily about the shushing geology family when I noticed they were only a few feet away from us. I don’t think they heard me, because the mom offered Chooch a fruit roll-up. 

“I feel bad now,” I whispered to Henry as we approached our car. 

“No, you don’t,” he swiftly corrected. 

Laughing, I said, “Yeah, I know.” 

We stopped for lunch at some crappy family restaurant in the mountains where I had the least satisfying grilled cheese ever and our waitress with little green gauges asked to read my tattoo. 

“It’s Chiodos,” I said, and she smiled and walked away. 

To Henry, I muttered, “I thought maybe she would know, since she has gauges.” And then I pouted every time she came back because she wasn’t all “OMG CHIODOS” like I am. 

And of course we would get a flat tire on the way home. It was actually a good thing, because we’ve needed new tires in a very bad way, so now Henry has no choice but to get that done today. We pulled over in the Gene and Boots candy store parking lot. What magical timing. 

Chooch, who had been sleeping when this happened, flipped out. 

“I don’t want the tire to be flat!” he wailed, as though I had just told him one of the cats died. I couldn’t get him to stop crying, so I was left with no choice but to take him inside the candy shop and get him candy.  The perils of being a mom. 

There was some broad in there who watched Chooch and me like hawks from the moment we entered the shop. Oh I know, look at these two raggamuffins, right? Make sure we don’t steal anything! I didn’t even bring my purse with me, just my wallet, and Chooch was clearly tossing items into a basket so I don’t know what the issue was. But it almost made me want to chuck the basket at her and leave. 

There’s an ice cream shop there too, and when Henry was done with the tire, we all went inside. That same broad was behind the counter, taking her good old time scooping ice cream for someone who wasn’t even in there, and never once said, “I’ll be with you a minute” or even turned to acknowledge us with a smile. Nothing. 

And then I took a picture. She whirled around and very tersely said, “Oh, you can’t take pictures in here.” The way she said it triggered something in me, something 16-years-old and disgustingly petulant. I looked at Henry, smiled fakely and said, “Let’s not buy anything here!” and stormed out the door. I wondered why he wasn’t following me and saw that he was waiting to buy a Mountain Dew. I stuck my head back in the door and said shittily, “Just buy that at a store, she’s taking too fucking long.” Henry dejectedly put it back and stopped at a convenience store down the street. 

The inside of Gene and Boots. All their secrets revealed on the Internet in ONE PHOTO! PASS IT ON! 

Passing an Exotic Dancers sign outside of a seedy bar, Henry felt inspired to regale us with his history of strip clubs. 

“You were eleven the last time I went to one,” he laughed. The thought of that made me cover my breasts. 

He went on. “I got kicked out of one in Texas for giving a stripper a quarter.” 

“You can get kicked out for that?” I asked incredulously. 

“Yeah, when you throw it at her,” he clarified. 

Before I left for work yesterday, it began to downpour. Because I never think very far ahead, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed the camera and ran outside with Chooch.

“I had a dream that you were taking me to my new classroom and you looked ugly,” Chooch said when we were on our way to buy him new clothes for school.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“What?! It was just a dream. God.” And then came a series of annoyed and exasperated grunts that he must have learned from Henry because I am never annoyed or exasperated.

Nearly every shirt he picked out has skulls on it.  And he’s clearly not afraid to make bold statements by wearing purple.  I wonder what scene-kid fashion will be like by the time he’s in high school. I wonder if there will be cool scene-ish four-year-olds in his pre-school class.

Henry came home from work during our photo shoot and proceeded to sit across the street in the parking lot like a creeper, probably finishing up his daily phone sex with his girlfriend. I didn’t even realize he was there until I came back inside and saw that he texted “you guys are idiots.” He’s just jealous that he’s too old to play in the rain; it’ll enrage his arthritis.

And then I had to leave for work, where I sat in air conditioning for the next five hours while squirming under wet hair and damp clothes. And when I get sick, of course I’ll act surprised.

Chooch is going to be in for a shock when it comes time for school portraits and the photographer doesn’t pull out an animal mask or a tube of fake blood.

In other awesome parenting news, I spent a whopping two hours with him at the playground today. If this isn’t your first time reading this shitty blog, you should know how amazing and unusual that statement is. Being an anti-mom, I try to avoid any situation which is going to potentially pit me against other moms.

Playground Moms.  They are Massengill-filled sausages, I fucking swear to god. I can’t stand them. They are all sit around in snobby cliques looking down their noses at the other moms who aren’t cooze-y and granola enough to be included, like me and this other broad who was also sitting alone. And I have to say, if I was forced to interact with ANY of them, it would have been her.

Meanwhile, as the twatty hens were clucking away about apple sauce (I’m not lying), not one of them was watching their children and I had to go and herd a bunch of them away from the parking lot, all the while scowling at their asshole birth vessels on the way back.

Oh well. At least I got to work on my tan.

An hour ago, I was ranting about being considered a Mommy Blogger.

I’m not a mommy blogger! Here, have a photo of my kid!

Success is managing to photograph the subject without getting sprayed with milk and dirty boy spit.

Filthy disgusting boy-hands, all day, every day.

It is hot. We don’t have air-conditioning, except in the bedroom. Just putting four pictures in a post is making me sweat and it’s not even 10:00am yet. Words will have to come at a later date.

(And I have a lot of them, because Alisha and I went to the Big Butler County Fair, OMG.)

I grew up with an in-ground pool at my disposal and central air. Ten years I’ve spent in the hell that is this piece of shit house in Brookline, and I have come to the conclusion that acclimation isn’t a real thing. I actually wished I had to work yesterday, just to get a reprieve.

“You had a REAL pool when you were a kid, and all I get this cheap balloon-thing?” Yep, pretty much, Chooch.

People passing our house yesterday were actually willing Chooch to splash them.

Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be 96 degrees for Warped Tour.

But at least it’s open space, and not the brick prison I call home, which is essentially Hell with a lid on.

This photo has nothing to do with anything. You may continue.

You know what I hate the most about summer? Aside from my child stinking like he belongs at the edge of a creek, swigging moonshine with the Appalachians? Children. Specifically: other people’s children. My block is usually pretty quiet, but suddenly there has been some eerie influx of other people’s children milling about and I’m not happy about this.

Generally, Chooch will play with Hot Naybor Chris’s two grandchildren. The boy (whom Alisha lovingly refers to as Bobby Hill, a comparison I can’t deny) is two weeks older than Chooch, so they sort of play well together. Kind of. Lately, they’ve been butting heads, which I suppose is normal for four-year-olds.  Bobby’s older cousin, Madison (which is apropos because this child is always mad), attaches herself to me every single time she spots me. I’m an old lady! I just want to sit on the porch and sort of supervise, but not really. But as soon as Madison sees me, she screams, “The big girl is out now!”

And then it goes like this every time:

“Will you play volleyball with me?”

“No.”

“OK thanks!” and suddenly I’m  on the receiving end of a whaling, giant Spongebob ball.

Luckily, she only manages to make it through life three minutes at a time before winding up in the next Time Out round.

Meanwhile, Chooch is yelling at Bobby for speaking indecipherably.

The one day, I was sitting with the kids on the driveway when Toya came out to show Ruth some pictures. She started to retreat back inside her house, before doing a double take and saying, “Oh I’m sorry, Erin! I thought you were just one of the kids.”

FUCK. When do I get to graduate from the kids table? It was like this 10 years ago when I first moved into this neighborhood. Every child would congregate on my front porch like goddamn stray cats while all the adults got to sit around, drinking beer, and pretending they weren’t parents. (Not a big stretch.) It’s like kids can smell my disdain and that makes it more fun for them. “Let’s go bother the broad who doesn’t like kids!” Yes. Let’s indeed. They must feed off my sarcasm.

Lately, though, there have been new children. Two doors down, there lives an adorable little four-year-old girl with afropuffs named Naomi (the girl, not the afropuffs. Two afropuffs wouldn’t have one name. Don’t be stupid.). Every day starting last week, her two cousins have been visiting. Dwayne is probably around ten, and Little Ronnie looks like he is also around Chooch and Naomi’s age.  Now, I’d have no problem with Chooch playing with them if it was just the little ones, but Dwayne is suddenly the Kingpin of Pioneer Ave, so when he’s out there, Robin’s son Brandon emerges and so does some little bratty Mexican kid who lives with a foster family down the street. And these boys are pretty much the best everything ever, the quintessential “I Meant To Do That”s.

Now, Dwayne is full of pleasantries and respect for me. He calls me Miss Erin and says things to Chooch like, “Riley! Your mama is talking to you! Go to your mama, Riley!” and you can just tell that Chooch is bursting at the seams to curse at him, but instead he just laughs and looks at me like, “Who, her?! She ain’t gon’ do SHIT, boy.”

Dwayne wasn’t too bad at first. The first day they all played with water guns, which was great until somehow I found myself kneeling on Naomi’s sidewalk, filling up squirt guns from two buckets of water per Dwayne’s orders, while Blake smoked a cigarette on my front porch and laughed at me.

Then Dwayne, catching wind that Chooch has a soccer ball, organized a little game of soccer and included all the kids in it. But then it turned into a showboating session, with Dwayne hollering, “Miss Erin! Watch this!” and apparently he thinks bending it like Beckham means to literally scissor-kick the air, missing the ball altogether while face-plowing the yard. And of course the ball would roll into the very busy street we live on, and guess whose job ball retrieval was? So much for sitting on the porch, pretending to watch my child. Now I’m IN IT. ALL UP IN IT.

Because who cares if the thirty-year-old dumb ass gets hit by a semi.

Unfailingly, it quickly goes from innocent ball-fetching to straight-up, “Miss Erin, be the goalie!”

Oh my god, it’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?

Yesterday, Chooch brought his ball out and Dwayne swooped in and confiscated it so he and the Mexican foster jackass could pretend to be the most amazing ball-kickers ever to walk the planet (when we all know that’s me).  The Mexican asshole kept kicking the ball into the street and I was about to chop his ass until his foster dad called him home because he had to go to Target with his mommy. I was like, “Ooh, look at the tough guy, going to Target with his mommy. Go bring me back some juice boxes, asshole.”

So now Dwayne was alone, one big kid against three small kids. He saw that I was softly pitching a Nerf ball to Little Ronnie, who wasn’t really doing too well, but he looked cute trying. Dwayne decided he needed in on this action. He wrenched the bat from Little Ronnie and I immediately began to protest. However, Little Ronnie looked like he was used to this and wasn’t do much in the way of throwing a fit, so I was like, “Fine, one pitch, then it’s Ronnie’s turn again.”

“Ball!” Dwayne shouted. “That was a ball, so it don’t count. Pitch it again, Miss Erin.”

“No, this isn’t goddamn regulation baseball. It’s Little Ronnie’s turn.” And I stamped my foot, completely negating any chance I had of finally getting that Kid Table graduation party.

Dwayne dropped the bat to the ground, all dejectedly. Bitch, please. I guarantee the kid was getting more attention at that very moment than he does at home in an entire week.

Chooch grabbed the extra bat and asked if he could have a turn, too. I was about to toss the ball to him when Dwayne shouted, “Riley, did you ASK if you could use Naomi’s bat?” Meanwhile, Naomi was two sidewalks down, playing with a broken jump rope. I was inclined to think she didn’t really give a shit.

Dwayne ripped it out of Chooch’s hand.

Chooch looked alarmed, and also confused because I’m sure he didn’t understand what he had done wrong.

“Oh, just like how you asked to use his soccer ball?!” I yelled. “Let him use the damn bat.” But Chooch had marched inside the house. I thought there was going to be a meltdown, that I might have to start reading all those perfect mommy blogs out there to find out how to handle this. But instead, he came bounding out of the house with his Jason mask on.

That was great that Chooch bounced back, but you know what? I hadn’t bounced back. In fact, I was pretty much fucking over it. I grabbed the soccer ball and announced that we were going back inside.

And when I say ‘announced’, I really mean I yelled, “SCREW THIS, YOU’RE SO MEAN, GIVE ME BACK THE FUCKING BALL, GOODBYE.”

“Wait Miss Erin! Watch how great I am at jumping rope!” Dwayne begged, desperate to retain his forced audience. I paused long enough to see that he really fucking sucked. Like, worse than sucked. A paraplegic could do it with more grace.

I sarcastically applauded and shut the door.

Would you believe later on, he and that Mexican mother fucker had the audacity to stand outside my front window and ask to borrow Chooch’s soccer ball? And you know what I said? GET YOUR OWN GODDAMN BALL.

Big kids were not meant to play with little kids. Without being overtly violent toward the young ones, Dwayne does everything in his power to let it be known who’s in charge.

No, Dwayne – I’mma tell you who’s in charge around here, OK? Me. Miss Erin, that’s who. And if that’s a problem, I’ll kindly take back my child’s ball and be seeing you hopefully never.

I’m about to seriously start a gang. I hope Henry will let me borrow his bandannas.

Hey, what do we do around here for Mother’s Day? Nothing. What do we do for Father’s Day? Oh, spend the day at an amusement park, no biggie.

But I don’t mind too much because it’s more for me than Henry anyway. He’s all, “I’m just happy I get to spend the day with the people I love” and, after barfing in a boot, I’m like, “Who, skanky teens in bikini tops and booty shorts? Middle-aged broads spilling out of their tank tops, boasting Tasmanian Devil tattoos and stretch marks?” Because these are the types of people with whom Kennywood is predominantly filled.

It turned out to be a miserable day. It was super hot, which I didn’t really mind, but I was worried about how much money we spent to go in the first place, never mind how much we’d be spending on food and beverages once inside. Blake wasn’t feeling well so I didn’t want to drag him on too many ridiculous rides, and Chooch was just being a wishy-washy cry baby bitch.

I wanted to start out easy by going on the super lame Garfield-themed boat ride that’s right near the entrance. I thought it would be a good first ride for Chooch, as it’s proved to be in years past. But I was vetoed because what do I know anyway, I’m a high school AND college drop out. Henry decided it was best to start him out big, so we took him on his first non-baby roller coaster, the Jack Rabbit. It’s a pretty non-threatening wooded coaster, but it does have a double-dip, and that’s what I was worried about for him. I kept imagining him being sprung from his seat and thirty years from now becoming an urban legend because no one actually remembers if some four-year-old actually did plummet to his death on the Jack Rabbit back in those crazy 2010’s or if it was just a story a clave of moms made up to deter their children from ever wanting to ride a roller coaster,  ever again.

I don’t really think Chooch knew what he was in for when Blake guided him straight to the front seat. Henry and I sat directly behind them, and I watched as Chooch scrunched up against Blake’s side for the entire duration. He didn’t cry, but I could tell, just by his body language, that he probably thought my threats of him going to Hell were finally coming into fruition. He seemed fine when we got off the ride, but when I asked him if he liked it, he very sincerely and sing-songily replied, “No, not really!”

It ruined him for the rest of the day, I know it did. We would get to the front of the line for the basest of family rides, like the types rides that pregnant women could ride and feel confident that they won’t get off leaving a trail of miscarriage in their wake, only for Chooch to say, “Um, no, I’m not riding this. Let’s go, kbye.” There were times when I wanted to push him, but people were looking. So we were good parents and left the lines with him every time, while threatening him in terse tones through taut lips.

I think I told him like 67865 times that he was ruining my day, and then Henry would have to remind me that mothers shouldn’t say things like this to their children and I was like, “Bitch, don’t you know I’m not a mother when I’m at Kennywood? I’m a fucking KID who wants to RIDE some mother fucking RIDES.”

We did, however get him on the Raging Rapids, which thoroughly pissed him off.

Slightly amused after a light sprinkle

Complained a lot about his new shoes getting wet

Not actually crying, but REALLY FUCKING BENT OUT OF SHAPE

Chooch was relatively mild-mouthed for most of the ride, until getting assaulted by the waterfall, to which he exclaimed in a very angry tone, “Oh, FUCK THAT.” He sounded so dire that I didn’t even have the heart to yell at him for taking his swearing side show on the road.

At one point, I tried on a suit of graciousness (it didn’t fit me very well, but at least I tried) and suggested that Henry and Blake ride the Phantom’s Revenge together because the line looked short. And you know, it was fucking Father’s Day after all. I figured Chooch and I could go on Noah’s Ark during that time. Noah’s Ark is just this large walk-through ride that thankfully doesn’t have the religious overtones you’d think it would. It’s like, every child’s favorite ride though, because it’s dark, fun, has moving floors and fake animals to look at.

Chooch has been through it three times in the past, but apparently he doesn’t remember because once we got in line, he deemed that it was going to be “too dark in there, let’s go.” I was like, “Asshole, this ride was fucking built for children! It is NOT SCARY! You watch motherfucking Friday the 13th and don’t bat an eye lash, but you’re afraid to walk through some lame ass boat with a bunch of fake ass fucking props in it?” Oh my lord, I was so disappointed in him.

So we spent a half an hour sitting on a ledge, waiting for Henry and Blake. By the time they got off the coaster, I was in full-blown sulk mode.

“I’m ready to dip up out of here,” I said disgustedly to Henry.

“What, why?” he asked.

“BECAUSE CHOOCH WON’T RIDE ANYTHING AND THIS WAS A WASTE OF MONEY AND MY WHOLE DAY IS RUINED!” I wailed. And the camera battery died after 30 minutes! And half the rides were closed! And I didn’t have a friend to take with me! And I felt fat!

But then Blake, worlds more mature at just seventeen than I am at thirty, suggested that Henry and I go ride something like a real life couple and he’d take Chooch to get pizza.  So Henry and I rode the Music Express, which was fun because I got to add extra curricular punches and pinches on top of the standard pre-packaged pulverizing that comes included with spinny rides. And after that, I dragged him on the Cosmic Chaos, which is still relatively new and he’s never actually seen in action. Until he was stuck smack in the middle of line when the next round started. As Henry watched it do its thang, he gravely murmured, “Oh, Erin…” I think that was my favorite part of the day. Either that or when Blake and I were on the Aero 360 and I asked him if he knew the scene kid who was sitting next to me. “What, I’m supposed to know him because he’s a scene kid?” Blake asked, upset with my assumption, like it was racial profiling or something.

After that, we tried to get Chooch to ride more things but he was being a big baby, and not even a cute one, but the kind you want to punch and then leave on someone’s porch in a laundry basket, so I threw my own fit and stalked off toward the entrance, where I sat on a bench alone. Literally, I sat there with my lip all pursed and quivering, arms crossed, and a thousand murderous scenarios screeching through my broken mind like a rusty train on chalkboard tracks.  This was around the time I tweeted, “I wish I could stuff Today in a cadaver and fuck it in the ass with a blow torch.” Then I decided, I’ll show them, I’m going to leave! So I texted Blake and said, “I’m leaving!” to which he replied, “But you have all the money!” and then Henry left Blake and Chooch in Kiddieland to come calm me down.

Which he did by buying me food because, being the Erin specialist that nine bi-polar years have made him, he recognized in the situation all the signs of Erin Famine. And I was cool after that! We went back to KiddieLand and Blake was like, “You kids go on and have fun. I’ll stay here with Chooch.” Really, this was because Blake wasn’t feeling well and standing among parents watching small children oscillate slowly on hideous animal faced-carriages was more appealing to him than getting whiplash.

So Henry and I got to be a Real Life Couple and ride things together! I can’t remember this ever really happening too often at Kennywood. I know that he and I have never been there alone together, so this was sort of like a DATE. It was weird! And he was really giddy and kept trying to kiss me and I had to remind him that I hadn’t suddenly abandoned my hatred of PDA. He even grabbed my boobs right as our photo was taken on the Log Jammer and I was like, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did Blake give you E?”

Then I had to stand around impatiently while he played that money-guzzling game Pong Pond, where you get like, seven chances to bounce a ping pong ball and hope that it lands in a plastic lily pad. I’ve yet to see him win at this game.

“This is the only game I’m good at!” he whined after I begged him to stop spending money on it. “I’ve won it, like three times!”

“Seriously? You’ve won three times in the thirty years you’ve been coming here?”

He thought about this. “Yes. So I’m about due for a win.” I had to pull him away. Unless he was going to wrap a stuffed animal around my goddamn finger and propose, I wasn’t about to stand there and cheerlead for him while he blew through all of MY MONEY.

Then the night turned sour. Blake wanted to leave because he wasn’t feeling well at all, which was understandable, but Chooch had to play fucking mind games with me the whole way back to the entrance. “I want to ride this.” We’d get in line. “No, I don’t think so.”

I was so over it! Walking past Garfield’s Nightmare, the extremely docile family boat ride Chooch pussied out on twice that day, he begged us to take him on it.

“Hell no,” I said. “I’m done playing these games with you. All you’re going to do is get in line and change your mind, so stop wasting my time.” And he threw a full blown fit, right there in front of all the other children who were like, “Yay! We’re at Kennywood! We appreciate this opportunity so much, Mommy and Daddy! We are going to ride every single ride to make sure we get our money’s worth, and you will be so proud of us! And before we go to bed tonight, we will be sure to read from our Bible!”

This was the point where I quickened my pace, and left Blake and Henry behind me to pull Chooch along, kicking and screaming. He cried and screamed the whole way home while I stared out the window and tried to remember what it was like to be single.

Happy Father’s Day, Henry! I’m leaving!

We were going to go to the Arts Festival today, Henry, Chooch and me. Our neighbor Toya was outside as we were beginning our walk to the trolley stop (one of the only nice things about where I live is that we can conveniently take the trolley downtown rather than drive and pay $5876876 plus a vial of baby albino blood for parking). Chooch loves Toya. LOVES HER. So much that he knows the precise sound of her car (as opposed to the 3+ other vehicles pulling in and out of our shared driveway on the daily) and he’ll stick his fat head out the window and yell, “HI TOYA! OVER HERE TOYA! HI TOYA!”

She thinks it’s precious because she doesn’t live with him.

Naturally, Chooch had to divert his path and run to tell her our itinerary. “And we’re taking the TROLLEY!” he panted excitedly. She was nice enough to let us borrow her bus pass so one of us could ride free.

We got to the trolley stop and proceeded to wait for a good twenty minutes because Henry didn’t listen to me when I told him what time it would arrive. I had already had a really dramatic morning (that’s tomorrow’s tale, woo boy!) and every little thing was pissing me the fuck off.

Including waiting for the trolley.

So I was like, “Fuck it, I’m out” and we all walked back home. Just totally was NOT feeling it and couldn’t imagine half-heartin’ it through the Arts Festival, which is something I generally look forward to. But on this day? I was exhausted in all aspects.

Chooch has been playing with some little kid over in Toya’s yard for the last hour now. I don’t know if he’s her nephew or what, but he’s a cute kid. About a minute after they first got acquainted, Chooch came stomping over to me and said, “That kid keeps calling me Riwee! Tell him to stop!”

“Well,” I asked, “what did you tell him your name is?”

“Riwee!” he said emphatically.

(At least he’s not telling people his name is Chooch, because he knows it’s just a nickname, so a big FUCK YOU to all the people who tell me, “You really ought to stop calling him that.” Oh my god, my kid knows his real name!? Shocking.)

They were breaking a bamboo stick into dangerous, spiny pieces the last I checked. This is all besides the point.

Suddenly, I heard Toya howling. Absolute gut-jiggling guffaw reverberating down the block, like two cracked-out Santas had just belly-bumped each other after watching porn.

This could not be good.

She had apparently asked Chooch if he had fun at the Arts Festival.

And that little squealer said, “We didn’t go because mommy said the trolley is a piece of fucking shit.”

That was my cue to quietly slip back into the house and leave Henry out there to find a cork for this particular oil spill.

At least Toya eschewed her Perfect Mommy lecturing for hysterical laughter, so this was significantly less traumatic than the time he told our neighbor Ruth, “My mommy hates you, Ruth!”

Still, I’ll never fucking learn.