Hopefully, there will be a day when I stop holding my breath as Chooch ascends/descends a flight of stairs. Hopefully, that day comes soon.

It wasn’t that bad when Chooch did this last week, because it was washable marker. But today it was paint. Same color, though. Your apparent penchant for blue is not unnoticed, Chooch. Please find other, cleaner ways to boast it.

I remember when I was pregnant with him, how everyone would harangue me about how I was in for it, how I had better pray that he didn’t have my temperament.

My (lack of) patience. My weirdness. But I clung to the chance that he would be a mini-Henry: laid back, mellow, patient, rational, and calm.

He got Henry’s expressive eyebrows. Everything else is all me.

He’s been throwing these utterly horrific fits of bi-polar proportions. Say he bumps his head. He’ll start crying a little. Henry will pick him up and rub his head. This sets something off within Chooch’s brain –you can practically hear synapses snapping and crackling. His face will turn beet red and he’ll emit this shrill siren like he’s summoning Satan himself. Then he’ll laugh. Appearing confused that he’s laughing, he’ll start crying again, followed by an encore of the shrieking and a Damien-esque maneuver to rip off Henry’s face.

I just have to stand back and watch, all agog. I know what he’s feeling, having all those emotions puddle together and you’re so confused because they all try to come out at once and they’re elbowing and clawing to get in the front of the line.

“You know, it’s like those earth-shattering histrionics that I used to do,” I explained to my mom on the phone. She was silent, probably trying to measure her response accordingly, so I sighed and mumbled, “You know, all the stuff that I still haven’t grown out of.”

Hopefully, Chooch will figure out how to control that shit and then he can teach me.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:30 Henry called me a whiner-baby WHATEVER THAT MEANS. #
• 20:46 was going to write about Warped Tour tonight but it appears that I’m job-searching instead. Oh Life, you card. #
• 21:36 I just resigned from my job. Tomorrow is my last day. My boss almost cried and then I almost cried. Ow. #
  

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• 19:31 UM. Tina just said goodbye to me because she’s leaving early and I FEEL SAD. Like, a legitimate twinge of sadness traveled my body. WTF. #
• 21:10 evidently I don’t smoke Swisher Sweets correctly. Feeling ill is the 1st sign. Smiling while smoke seeps through my teeth is the 2nd sign.
  buy amoxil online buy amoxil generic

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• 15:40 It’s a good thing my pre-ordered Anthony Green CD arrived today, because I’m feeling crushed by post-job-quitting blues. Ouch. #
• 20:33 Just called a cop a fucker. Henry frowned. #
• 12:01 My kid is so abusive. I shouldn’t flinch every time he nears me. #

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Chooch’s Lost Boys figurines arrived yesterday and I feared he was going to start whipping me with chains because I wasn’t opening the box fast enough. I could almost hear the harcore collectors worldwide, wailing in unison as I cut open each figurine’s package. Then we had to have a long talk about how these aren’t really toys, they’re very special collector’s items, so please don’t rub them in cat poop or let your father caress his asshole with them. Both David and Michael came with their own little backdrops and various props, including interchangeable heads and feet in case we decide that the vamped out look is growing older than celebrities wearing Uggs in summer.

Chooch and I shared some tender moments yesterday, renacting scenes. Chooch used Michael to push down David and yelled, "Just you! Just you!" and then I picked up David and said, "Maggots, Michael" and together we embroiled them in mid-air vampire battles. I just wish there was a Star figurine, so I could reenact the sex scene with Michael, only with way more smut, some clown paint, and maybe even that gigantor zucchini Kim gave me.

Then while Chooch was napping, another package arrived. This one was full of crocheted eyeballs and a cute little zombie made by my awesome friend Sarah, purveyor of the coolest shit you’ve ever seen yarn turned into, such as bacon and eggs. I tucked the largest of the eyeballs next to Chooch while he was napping. When he woke up, he immediately started exclaiming, "Eyeball!! Eyeball!! Oh, eyeball!!" and when I walked into his room, he was standing up and holding it out proudly, like he was presenting me with a bag of golden ballsacks.

At work, I was telling Collin about Chooch’s big mail day. We talked a little about Chooch’s un-toddler-like, road-to-Goth interests, which prompted Collin to jokingly suggest, "You might as well just start painting his nails black."

I laughed, considering this. "Well, they’re pink right now."

He seriously reminds me of Drop Dead Fred in the first picture, I don’t know why. No! More specifically, Rik Mayall’s character in The Young Ones. Now I feel better.

Ice cream does that to me sometimes, too, Chooch. Maybe closer to all the time, if we’re playing truthsies.

Chooch finally poses now. Hopefully, gone are the days of back-of-the-head action shots.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:42 ITS JUST RAIN! DRIVE, YOU FUCKSTICKS. Where’s the shotgun when I need it. #
• 16:51 when it’s raining, the only styling I should do to my hair is covering it with a bag. #
• 17:09 Kim just bought me a vegetable roll bc I have no cash. My translation: she’s going to miss being my boss. #
• 19:03 Wish I had thought to steal Ian Curtis’s gravestone. #
• 22:30 My boss burnt her popcorn and now i’m reaping the rewards. #
• 12:43 Henry said I’ve become a little more tolerable. Whatever that means. #

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Henry says that Chooch looks like the spitting image of me in this picture, which I can’t really deny as I can generally be found mid-whine as well.

Lately, Chooch has been into treating us with quite the histrionic performances. He’ll launch himself into full-body agita, make a sad little ‘o’ with his angry lips, and channel all the drama greats to achieve the most believable cry of desperation. After a minute or two or being ignored, he’ll rub his eyes, and in a cheerful baby-voice, he’ll declare, "I cryin’!"

And then he’ll laugh.

That’s the best case scenario. Worst case is that he turns into a tornado and starts kicking furniture and swiping things off the coffee table like a human wrecking ball. Then Henry will ask, in mock wonderment, "Wow, I wonder where he learned that?" and then shoot a paralyzing glare at my head.

The other day, Chooch and I were in my bedroom. He was at the foot of my bed when he started exclaiming "Kids!"  He was pointing into his bedroom. "Kids, kids, kids!"

I didn’t know what he could have been looking at that had kids on it, so I said, "No, Chooch. No kids."

Frustrated, he got up and ran into his room, where he pointed at the center of the floor and declared, "KIDS. Hahaha, kids!" At this point, I’m standing in the doorway of his room, heartrate accelerated, praying that some ghost child isn’t going to bite my ankle and shove a crucifix in my crotch.

Chooch was still standing there, pointing, looking all excited to have found invisible children in his room. I was afraid that if I entered the room, the door would slam and lock behind me and blood would start pouring from the walls like a waterfall from Hell, so I tugged him on the arm and said, "Hey, let’s go downstairs now, hooray."

I had just watched The Orphanage two days prior to this. Bad timing, Chooch.

So far, Chooch is turning out exactly how I had hoped.

Today the light bulb went off. Instead of letting my son grind chalky streaks into the hardwood floor and along his dome, maybe I might take him outside and let him go chalk-wild on the sidewalk. I think that’s maybe why it’s called sidewalk chalk?

Once outside, I was hoping that Chooch would sit quietly in the grass and watch in awe as I created colorful masterpieces upon the cement. Instead, he stole his own pieces and scrawled angry lines through my fantastic doodles. And I had a REALLY AWESOME robot out there, too. I even took the time to SHADE that bitch.

Chooch is napping now and the competitve side of me wants to go back out and draw a bigger, badder robot. A robot with a gaping maw that’s engulfing all of Chooch’s gay drawings. But I have to let Chooch win sometimes, right?

Parenting is hard.

"I like holding rabbit hats while smiling for my daddy — Michael Keaton."

Seriously, those are some crazy-arched brows on that child.

I tried to counter the impending nightmares from watching The Lost Boys five times in three days by playing the Care Bears Movie for him today, but he was completely uninterested. I, on the other hand, was tearing up during the opening credits. That fucking Carole King song gets me every time. Later on, I put on MTV (which was actually — wait for it — PLAYING VIDEOS) and he gave the thumbs up. (Actually, he sticks up his pointer finger and shouts "Awesome.")

Maybe tomorrow we’ll watch his dad in Batman.

The weather forecast for Saturday was rain, rain and more rain. I asked Henry, “Do you still want to go on that fantastically awesome scenic train ride, even in the rain?” and he said yes. At this point, my memory forbade me to remember all the other scenic train rides I had been on in my life time, and how extremely boring they truly are. (Unless, you know, you’re into that scenery shit.)

Schenely, PA is about an hour away and I was sulking for the majority of the ride. Just part of my nature. But then Henry stopped at a Sunoco and returned with a bag of mint M&Ms. I acted all ambivalent about it, but still drank down half the bag. Mood instantly lifted.

As soon as we boarded the train, it began pouring. Like any other sensible person, I chose the open-sided car so we could be treated to a natural shower and then simultaneously bitch about it for the hour long ride. There were about twenty other people who had the same idea.

While we were waiting for the 2:00 departure time to roll around, someone pointed out that one of the cars in the lot had an open window. It was the car right next to us, so Henry shouted out to the woman who owned it and then was thanked profusely by her and her husband. He sat there with a smug grin on his face, like he was some kind of fucking hero. I bet he did heroic shit like that all the time when he was in The Service, helping hookers climb out of vats of penii.

Imagine how tickled I was when the train kicked into motion and a woman’s voice filled the car from a speaker. Wow, a scenic railroad excursion paired with a guide enlightening us with local flavored fun facts? What a treat. Unfortunately, there was so much commotion on the train that her commentary came off sounding like the teacher from Peanuts. Every time I asked Henry what she said, it was always the same: “Something about the river. I don’t know.”

Chooch was really great for most of the first leg of the trip. He sat on my lap to avoid the torrential downfall that was attacking us from the sides. But then he had the itch to roam, and it all unraveled from there. Once he had his feet on the floor, it was like an open invitation for the other children on the train to come out and play. Chooch procured the four cars he brought in his backpack, and suddenly I had a horde of small children surrounding me: a one-year-old, another two-year-old (Sioux, like the tribe!!!!) and her six-year-old sister (Cheyenne, like the tribe!!!!), whose grandma was wearing a Kermit t-shirt and would not stop chatting with me the entire time and I was so nervous that I was physically clenching. And you know, with kids come parents. I really hate socializing with parents. Chooch was doling out his cars, only to confiscate them at his will. He seemed to take an immediate liking to the six-year-old, and was adament on giving her all the cars.

The one-year-old’s dad was wearing a Penguins hat, and I couldn’t help but notice Henry didn’t scoff, “Hockey season’s over” to him, like he does to me anytime I mention them.

At this point, I was unable to take in any of the trees and shit that we were passing, because I had to fulfill Mom duty and make sure that my son didn’t come to blows with anyone over a couple of fucking plastic cars. I hate this part of parenting. And you know what else I hate? Having to acknowledge other people’s kids. That Cheyenne chick kept standing in front of me and flapping her arms like a bird. “Oh. Uh, pretty,” I would try to placate her, instead of shoving her off on another parent like I really wanted. Another mother, though, she heartily exclaimed, “WOW! What are you, a bird?? OH COOL! You are so COOL! I LOVE KIDS! HAHAHAHA ZOLOFT!” Who the fuck gives a shit? Not me. Flap all you want, little girl. I’ll continue looking through you like you’re invisible to me. Because you are.

Chooch made me especially nervous around the one-year-old boy. I kept praying he wouldn’t push him off the train or choke him. (I had just taught Chooch that morning how to pretend-choke himself and quickly started to realize that I might wind up seeing repercussions to that act real quick.)

This guy told me what his purpose was when we first sat down. Something about doing something with the brakes? Who the hell really cares what his purpose is when he’s wearing some hot-assed overalls, though? Basically, he mopped us all off with towels and repeatedly noted that, “There are a lot of kids playing on this car!” and thank God for that play-by-play, because I really hadn’t noticed that my crazy kid was dominating over a trio of weaker-willed children.

After about an hour, I was stoked to see the station looming ahead. My hope was dashed as we turned around though, and headed in another direction. Apparently, you just can’t visit Schenely and not teeter precariously on a railroad bridge for fifty thousand minutes while a guide gives you muffled commentary about trout. And who would want to miss out on that?

It all looks so pretty, but on closer inspection below and to the left, I noticed that the camp site was dotted with Deliverance cast offs, who brought their laundry lines, rusted out pick up trucks, and large jugs to use as yard ornamentation; I’m pretty sure I smelled some hot incest from behind the jagger bushes, too. I can only hope Henry takes me there one day on our honeymoon.

Finally we got to leave and now I’m determined to remind myself every day that train rides are boring as fuck. I’m just glad Chooch didn’t call anyone an asshole.

When I gave birth to Chooch, Henry slept at the hospital every night. Maybe it was because he was afraid he’d get his nads lopped off if he didn’t, but it was still a fair indication of how he was going to be as a father: very hands-on and always there. You know, the kind of father I never had.

Chooch and Henry are attached at the hip. They go grocery shopping together, they practically live at Target, and sometimes Chooch even gets to go to Henry’s workplace with him. (He loves it there because it’s a juice warehouse.) Henry does all the hard stuff, like cook actual well-balanced meals for him (as opposed to my popcorn-for-breakfast and freezepops-for-lunch methodology). He gets him strapped into the carseat in less than a minute without pinching skin. (It takes me three times a long and I usually hurt myself.)

Henry makes sure I don’t teach Chooch knife-throwing and flame-eating; that I don’t teach him how to build bombs and invent creative obscenities. Henry makes sure Chooch likes and respects other people and never runs out of diapers and juice. Henry never leaves him in the car with the windows up or snorts rails of coke off his ass. Henry’s catchphrase is "Don’t listen to your mother."

Henry has the daunting task of being the responsible parent. Henry is the father I never had.

While it remains to be seen if Henry and I will live happily ever after, at least I know Chooch will always have a dependable dad.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dad-dudes out there.

Today, Chooch and I went to lunch with Janna and my brother Corey. We walked several blocks to Tom’s Diner, which was fine until the way back when Chooch was too tired to walk so I had to carry him in 179 degree weather and he stunk of sweat and curdled milk. Anyway, at Tom’s, he made a fist and held it out to everyone who walked past, and said, "Punch. Punch." Most people ignored him, but a fat old man wearing a big mother-whompin’ ring made a fist on his way out of the diner and shouted, "Gimme some knuckle, kid" and Chooch had this expression of "Fucking finally!" 

Chooch and I both had grilled cheese and fries, but he was more interested in stealing potato chips and pickles from Janna’s plate.

A woman came in with approximately 18 children (fine, four) and as soon as they sat down behind us, a really old should-be-fucking-dead-by-now man hobbled over with a hunched back and passed out saftey suckers to each one. "I just really love kids," he exclaimed to their mom, and then he went back to his table.

Now, this lewd display of favortism went down behind my back, so I sat there and funneled my disgusted sighs and angry scowls at Janna and Corey. "So what, Chooch doesn’t qualify? Why didn’t that elderly douche balloon give my son a fucking poison treat?" I swear to God it made me so angry that I could feel my adrenaline rushing, blood crashing like cymbals in my ears, and I wanted to approach him in the worst way. Me, approaching an octogenarian over a sucker. And then what? Cause a scene over candy that would wind up dirt-encrusted and dropped on the floor after three licks? I have a really ridiculously skewed sense of entitlement.

Saturday morning, Chooch locked himself in our bedroom. Henry pretty much had an "Oh fuck" attitude, because from the times I’ve locked myself in there intentionally he knew that breaking in would be difficult. We stood in the hallway coaxing Chooch to turn the knob, but he was too busy sliding a selection of my belongings under the door. That’s great Chooch, but my nail polish isn’t going to help open up the door. Playing up the drama, Chooch would casually say, "Help me, I stuck", as if he felt compelled to play along. Finally, Henry had the knob pulled out of the door far enough to pop the lock, and we found Chooch sitting in the middle of a pile of laundry, looking suspicious.

Today my child said "asshole" for the first time, and then smiled proudly. I know that I should have immediately nipped that in the bud, but it sounded so cute so I encouraged him to say it again.

I’ll just make Henry put a stop to it. Go ahead, Henry. Put a stop to it.

I’m such an immature mother. At least I don’t leave him in the car with the windows up. Or hand him sticks of dynamite. But I guess that’s only because I’ve never had any sticks of dynamite in my possession.

In addition to swearing and locking us out of rooms, Chooch is currently into freeze pops, eating all the garbanzo beans from my salads, sweating, and doing sign language on our cat Nicotina (when he’s not putting her into head locks and chasing her into corners), and eyeballs.