I always try to snap some shots of Chooch while he’s playing, because a kid enjoying a moment with his toys is like, pure embodiment of innocence.

Well, as long as you ignore the fact that he mutters insults at uncooperative trains, like “bitch” and “bastard” (which, when originating from Chooch’s lips, sounds more like “passerd”).

While Choocch ravaged the pile of gifts (I didn’t get one single thing and still, my bottom lip did not protrude), all the cats hid safely in the basement. Except for Nicotina (see also: Speck, Breakfast Nook) who was right up in it, playing with wrapping paper scraps and twist ties.

Because we’re stupid parents, nearly everything we bought required assembly. I attemped to master the instructions that came with an airport playset, but quickly found that drool was pooling in the corner of my mouth and my hands were beginning to curl inward. Henry took over and had it erected in a matter of minutes, but he left the sheet of stickers intact for my enjoyment.

And here is where Christmas quickly spiraled into a clusterfuck on par with being fucked by barbed wired dildos: I think I might have a mild form of OCD, I don’t know, but I found that the tiniest slight in sticker application was bringing my blood to a rolling boil. Henry kept saying completely insensitive things like, “What are you retarded? You can’t put a fucking sticker on properly?” and, as I was twisting my arm around Chooch’s fat head, trying to slap a sticker on the airport tower, “Here’s a thought: Why not wait until Chooch is done playing before putting the stickers on?” I couldn’t stop. In fact, I was about to get out a fucking level to ensure precision.

Then, to Chooch, he says, “Ignore her Chooch. She doesn’t understand that you just want to play. She’s a GIRL.”

And then this exchange happened: “Shut the fuck up! I’m more of a boy than you’ll ever be! Get back in the fucking kitchen you bitch!” And he did. Henry went right the fuck back in that kitchen and continued coddling the eggs he was was hardboiling for our picnic. He’s such a bitch I’m surprised he didn’t try to breast feed them, too.

And here is where I regressed to the emotionally undeveloped age of five: I noticed that while I was undergoing the diligent, steady-handed task of toy embellishing, Chooch was in the process of peeling off every sticker I had painstakingly smoothed on. And I lost it. Absolutely flipped my shit and shrieked, “OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT JUST FORGET IT TODAY IS FUCKING RUUUUUIIIIINNNNEDDD!!!!” No exaggeration. I said that. In high-pitched, calling-all-dogs mode. And then I stormed off to my bedroom, where I slammed the door behind me and layed in bed, staring at the ceiling for fifteen minutes until the electrical currents stopped zapping my nerves.

And then the rest of the day was great! Really fucking good. No fighting, no tears.

I got Chooch an Edgar Allen Poe doll. Judging by his confusing expression in this photo, you can tell he just loves it.

“Great, Mommy’s projecting her interests on me again. I wish I could just get a shittin’ Elmo like normal kids my age.”

Then it was off to the Uniondale Cemetery (going to the cem on Christmas is kind of our accidental tradition, I guess), where we had a very fast and frigid picnic consisting of egg salad sandwiches, pretzels, cheese cubes, and frozen strawberries (per Chooch’s request). Yes, it was a feast for kings, to be sure. For the record, the shopping list I gave Henry the day before demanded things like “a delicious array of rich cheeses” and “hearty artisan bread for which to sandwich the delicious array of rich cheeses,” among other fine products you might find in a palace’s pantry. All Henry got was eggs to hardboil, bland wheat rolls that were so dry they sucked the mayo from the egg salad, and two packages of Helluva Good.But I didn’t complain. I guess I’m complaining now, but the point is that I didn’t complain THEN. As in, on CHRISTMAS. I kept my maw packed with picnic fixin’s and distracted myself with the camera.

The coldness kept us from enjoying a lingering tour of the cemetery, and Henry and I were desperate to leave after twenty minutes. Chooch had other plans and took off, slaloming through tombstones and whacking trees with sticks while chomping on a pretzel; probably I’m sure this is some nefarious sequence used to raise Samhain. Chasing him down, I panted, “Come on, we have to go home! The zombies are coming!” and he replied, “Aw, cute. Zombies!” None of my lies work on this kid.

Later, we stopped over my dad’s, where Henry presented him with a case of Faygo rootbeer in bottles. Apparently, this was a good gift because my dad got that nostalgic glaze over his eyes and began regaling us of the good old days when soda was a luxury and if your parents gave you a glass bottle of Cola, you damn well drank it to the last drop. Henry I’m sure remembers those days too.

Now, my dad and Henry haven’t spent much time together, and my brother told me that when Henry and I first got together my dad didn’t approve because of the age difference. But that case of old fashioned root beer just may have brought them together, as evidenced by the jolly way my dad was patting Henry on the back, offering him kielbasi and referring to him as “buddy.”

My other, less-mentioned brother Ryan was there too, but only emerged from the basement long enough to hit up the bathroom. “Did Ryan say hello to you?” my dad asked. And I said, “If a head-nod counts as a hello, then yes. Yes, he said hello to me.”

My dad’s house is always so warm and cozy. I should spend more time there. But instead, I only opt for the requisite holiday face-showing. I’m a horrible daughter. (Somewhere, my mom is cackling and rejoicing, “She admits it!”)

Back at home, we spent the rest of the night eating nut rolls and chocolate, and watching Chooch play with his Thomas train tracks. And I got drunk.

So maybe my family (Mom’s side) is a bunch of pathological nut jobs and so maybe we didn’t have a Christmas tree  and so maybe we didn’t even set out cookies for the fat man on Christmas Eve, but by golly I wasn’t going to let my Christmas go down the shitter. All that really mattered anyway was the Chooch was happy, and I’d be willing to bet that, based on the deliriously goofy smile that was plastered on his grubby face all day, he was pretty fucking delighted.

And oh, look who likes Poe after all!

I hope everyone had a lovely holiday/day off. Ours was mellow (meaning I only threw one tantrum) and overall ended up being a nice day. More later; I have a Thomas playset to project my OCD on for now.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:38 all i want for xmas is for armsbendback to reunite. get on that, fat man. #
• 18:37 a big heart is filling the April 5 block of my calendar.. #
• 21:53 It is weird seeing Henry in his natural habitat. #
• 23:51 Elmer Klump took a dump in his grandmother’s wig. #

• 11:23 Had a spaz attack trying to follow “sticker placement” instructions for a toy airport playset only to have Chooch peel them all off. #
• 11:52 The Thomas Carnival Adventure set comes with stickers adhered. I’m sending a thank you card. Maybe even a fruit cake. #
• 12:52 twitpic.com/wefe – FUCK YOU. Get terrorized, you piece of shit. #
• 14:35 Got Chooch an Edgar Allen Poe doll. His response was “Um. Oookay,” after which he dropped it in favor of, u know, age appropriate toys. #
• 17:08 Chooch is on this odd church-going kick. Whose kid is this? #
• 19:59 Well, if Henry really did marinate my tofu in urine, I’m only alarmed because I liked it. #
• 20:03 The trick to not overeating on holidays is to not have family who invite you over for dinner. #

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Thank god I get emails from Pampers telling me how many months it’s been since my son was born, or I’d have to continue telling people he’s two-and-a-halfish. So if I put my faith in Pampers, Chooch is 32 months old now, and pretty heavy into Nickelodeon sitcoms like “Drake and Josh” and “iCarly.

” I always know when he’s watching the latter by Henry’s boisterous laughter, which comes with a nervous  epilogue of “I mean, I’m only laughing because it’s so stupid and improbable.”

I don’t mind these shows, but I pray they’re not some sneaky gateway show into the stool-softening garbage on the Disney channel.

While he still gravitates toward the Cure and post-hardcore sundry (I melt when, from the backseat, he requests, “Pierce the Veil, mommy!”), he has taken a liking to Katy Perry. I’m not thrilled about this, but I can acknowledge that it could be much worse. Oh so much worse. Miley Cyrus? Jessica Simpson? NICKELBACK?? [Why are people still buying Nickelback records? I met them in 2001 before they were mainstream radio whores and Chad Kroeger had already been prepped and primed for douchehood.]

The other afternoon, I was getting ready for work while he was “napping.” (I use that term very loosely as he primarily uses that downtime in his crib to plot Mommy’s impending mental breakdown and pen possible meals he can make once he succeeds in slaughtering our cat Nicotina.) So in his room, I keep his radio on one of the variety stations, and the newer Katy Perry single, “Hot and Cold,” came on. Chooch got quiet, then murmured, “Oh. Katy Perry’s on!” Then he quietly laughed – pre-nap delerium – and cooed, “Ha, Katy Perry…” He knows the video by heart, and yells, “I do!

” at precisely the right moment during the wedding scene. Then it’s, “Dance, Mommy! Dance!” and I’m dragged off the couch and forced to run laps around the coffee table.

He still upchucks obscenities with the gusto of a Southern trucker but he, thankfully, has been good about it in public. We dropped him off at Janna’s on Saturday so we could finish shopping and she said he never swore once and was “really cute.” That explains why the car ride home was peppered with “asshole”s and “jackass”s then – he was like a clogged pipe.

But hey, other than that, he hasn’t committed arson or anything.

Having nothing better to do, we took a “family drive” down south yesterday. Henry even packed us sandwiches! All-American family we are! Can you stand it?!

Anyway, Henry and I managed to go ALL DAY with nary a conflict. We even ogled a waterfall and bonded over ridiculing some Georgian slutbag who had the great sense to wear stiletto boots for a jaunt down an icy snow-packed path. I hoped she would slip and plummet to a rocky, waterfall-y death. Alas, she did not.

Chooch slept for the part of the ride, and spent most of his awake time demanding to listen to The Cure’s “The Baby Screams.” Sensing my annoyance as I ejected the CD I was enjoying, Henry reminded me that, “Hey, it could be Disney music he wants.” So true, Henri.

The trunk of our car is becoming a treasure trove for serial killer disguises.

Then we came home and Henry buzzed those odd follicular wings right the fuck off of Chooch’s dome.

After giving Chooch a nice and even pate, Blake came over and we made fun of the lame Pittsburgh holiday parade that was broadcast on television for those of us who were too busy not giving a shit to bother watching it live from downtown. And oh, was it a good one. The singer from the Poverty Neck Hillbillies was performing, ya’ll!!! Oh, how I swooned. Then I hurried up and hit ‘record’ so Christina can see all the wonders of our townie parade for her own two eyes next time she visits. She’s not gonna believe how star-studded it was, oh no she’s not. I heard even Christina Aguilera was considering coming home for it, but opted to keep her prior plans of being suspended by her nipples over top a bubbling cauldron of Pete Wentz’s semen. I dare Cincinnati to come with something stronger. We had JOHNNY & THE ANGELS***, BEAT THAT CINCI.

***Johnny Angel & the Halos, even. They’re so awesome I couldn’t even remember their awesome name.

I don’t know what Henry did to this, but what mother DOESN’T want to have nightmares of their kid?

Anyhow, I’m on my way home from Buffalo. Christina and I were there for a show last night so expect some scene kid overload in the next few days. Fucking hooray, yeah?

Hey Henry – put some pants on. I’m almost home.

Burning a hole in my wallet were some free zoo passes, given to me by my co-worker Lindsay at my last job. Henry came home from work early yesterday morning and we decided to take advantage of the seventy degree sun, even though it had only been a few months since I last spat ire at strangers at the zoo. And really. is it ever too soon to go on another hate-mongering rampage, am I right? I swear, every time I go to the zoo, the majority of the people there looked like they were born from a white wine-influenced one night stand between the LL Bean catalogue and Ann Taylor Loft outlet store. I bet their Cabela-bought backpacks are stcoked with Evian and organic cheese sandwiches. I bet their kids don’t swear.

Immediately, I disliked this one broad with two kids (one of which plays hockey; I know this because we parked next to her hockey league-decal’d $50,000 Mom Van). She hogged the view of a young playing tiger from the rest of us peasants while she took shot after shot with her obscenely gigantic lens through a finger-print streaked glass window, like she was some fucking safari journalist. Then just as she was about to leave, some douche in a STEELER jersey (nauseating) took her place with his equally ridiculous camera and I just stood, mouth agape, and said to Henry, “Seriously? This is the Pittsburgh Zoo, not the fucking Outback. They’re taking pictures through GLASS. Snot-smeared GLASS. Go take your John Holmes lens to the goddamn STEELER game where it belongs, Hometown Hero.”

All I wanted to do was see a fucking tiger gnaw on his rubber chew toy. OK?? 

Chooch seemed more aware of what he was spectating this time and spent less time trying to climb under fences and pick up rocks. He ooh’d and ahhh’d at the lions and tigers and at one point was so overwhelmed and amazed at what he was witnessing, that he let out a wonder-tinged “oh shit” in hushed tones.

Luckily, none of the LL Beaners were around.

In the Elepehant House, Henry attempted to play the role of Educator by saying things like, “Look at the big ears on those elephants, son! And wow, what big eyes!” which was only negated moments later when I laughed, “Holy shit, Chooch, look at their BIG POOP!” Of course, that’s what Chooch chose to repeat. “Big poop?! EW!” he screamed, wrinkling his nose. “BIG POOP, MOMMY, LOOK, BIG POOP!”

“OK, let’s move on,” Henry mumbled.

Chooch highly enjoyed the monkey house this time around. laying on his stomach at each exhibit to get a better view.

While it’s awesome that Chooch is shaping up to be so independent, it takes twice as long to walk when a two-and-a-half year old insists on pushing his own stroller. And god forbid you should tell him which way to go. We ended up side-by-side with a couple whose young daughter was trying to push her sister’s stroller, as well. Her mother pointed to Chooch and said, “See how he’s pushing the stroller all over the place and running into people? That’s what you’re doing too.” Fortunately for her, her daugher quickly dropped the reins when she saw how out-of-control she must have looked. Thanks for using my reckless son as your example, Fellow Mother. Asshole.

Chooch took this picture himself, when the camera was resting on the dirty, flu-dispensing table. His pink-painted nails are so shiny.

I have to eat every hour or else I’ll die. Unfortunately, the only food place there that served something without meat products was closed, so my only option was french fries in a Dixie Cup. Supposedly they had salads, but they must have been tossed with that new lettuce from Argentina.

You know, the invisible kind. Because I didn’t see it. So while Henry and Chooch chowed down on chicken tenders and a cheeseburger, I sulked at the sticky blue table and ranted loudly for all to hear about how absurd it is, in the year 2008, for a ZOO, a fucking piece of shit ZOO, to not have any herbivore-friendly sustenance. FRENCH FRIES ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I swear to God, the place that supposedly vends pizza has not been open once in the last six times I have gone to the zoo.

I AM WRITING A LETTER.

“I’ll buy you some Dip’n Dots,” Henry offered, trying to talk me down from the roof I was about to mount with my rifle. Fuck a Dip’n Dot, Mustache. I want LUNCH.

Henry gets nervous when I’m angry, and even more anxious when I’m hungry on top of that, so he ate without chewing and we quickly left for Denny’s, where I enjoyed a veggie burger and cottage cheese.

I might go back to the zoo in five years. MAYBE.

At work Friday night, I had finally begun to come to terms with  missing trick-or-treating. “My son will probably call people assholes or something, so I guess I’m glad I won’t have to dive in any bushes,” I said to my boss Dave, sitting with him in Dispatch. He laughed and said, “Yeah, but that actually sounds like it would be funny.”

“I know, right?!” I enthusiastically agreed.

Around 6:00pm, Sharon – the biller scheduled to work with me – arrived with a bright pink treat bag. “What’s this? To dull the pain of having to work on Halloween?” I asked sarcastically. But then I did a quick visual sweep and saw that there was some good shit in there so I thanked her genuinely.

As we billed several trailers, Sharon casually asked me some questions about Chooch, like what he was dressing up as. And then she asked how long it took me  to get home from work.

“I don’t know, fifteen minutes,” I answered. And then, as if the skies above had parted, Sharon said, “You know, I got this covered. You should go and be with your son. My kids are too old for trick-or-treating, anyway, so I’m not missing anything.”

Scrambling to get all of my stuff together, I officially dubbed her my favorite co-worker. I barely paused long enough to tell my boss that Sharon had dismissed me so I could take my son out, and he said, “Whoa, girl, you look like you’re going to CRY!” My eyes really had welled up with tears of happiness, I won’t lie. I’m not always a cold-hearted asshole.

I made it home by seven and didn’t even change out of my heels. I ran the two blocks to where Henry said he and Chooch were and I was so happy to be there that the analness in me didn’t even kick into gear when I saw that half of Chooch’s green Frankenstein face paint had been rubbed off. Apparently, he started crying immediately after application and Henry was too frazzled to give a shit. If I had been there earlier, I would have made it look much better, maybe slapped a slab of decomposing flesh to his cheek, but (BUT!) I was just grateful to be there at all.

Chooch and I had practiced the art of proper Halloween candy transaction all day, but by the time he realized what was going on, he dropped all pretenses and just asked, “CANDY?” when doors would open. My favorite moment was when he forcefully closed a door on an elderly couple after getting candy dropped in his bag.

This year proved to be more successful than last year, when he would pause every three steps to lay down in the middle of the street. He very quickly caught on to the process and didn’t try to walk into people’s houses and stay a spell like last year. In fact, he was in such a rush to make it to the next house that if it wasn’t for one of us holding his hand, he’d have Slinkied down a fair share of steps.

In addition to the loaded pillow case that Henry wound up lugging, Chooch also managed to acquire a bag of pennies (yummy, although in Chooch’s case it probably IS yummy) and a dollar from some lady who made a point to say several times that she wasn’t giving out candy.

I had fun making loud comments as we would retreat from houses, such as, “Wow, he was hot AND voting for Obama” and Henry was getting bristled I think. Then I talked about my new work-crush a lot too and Henry was like “Go get him then.”

We were out for about an hour and probably only passed fifteen other trick-or-treaters the entire time. On average, it seemed that only one in five houses was keeping dentists in business. I bitched about that for awhile until I realized that we didn’t put out any candy either. OOPS. I hesitate to be generous anymore in this neighborhood though. One Halloween, some bitch in a motorized wheelchair stole my entire bowl of candy.

Afterward, we stuffed Frankenchooch in the car and took him to see my grandma, who’s been in a nursing home for the past two weeks. It’s supposed to be temporary while she gets physical therapy, but I’m ever suspicious.

My aunt Sharon was there too, and had a bag of cookies and a car for Chooch (he probably would have been happier if every house gave him a car, to be honest). By this point, Chooch had sampled enough of his collection in the car to get a nice sugar buzz going. Add to that the large sugar granules he licked off the cookies at the nursing home, and we had one frenzied toddler. We only stayed there for twenty minutes or so, because my aunt gets so nervous that he’s going to break shit. I was glad to leave. That place was NOT agog with Halloween revelry.

Back at home, Chooch’s sugar level had increased significantly and he was now the owner of wild eyes and shrill outbursts. We let him crash his tricycle into the wall several times before he crashed himself  in his crib. The rest of the weekend has been full of demonic bellowing for CANDY! CANDY! Mostly by me.

My babe is 29 months old now. Twenty-nine fucking months, with the mouth of a teenager. He’s grown a fondness for belting out “Asshole parade!” in sporadic and inopportune intervals, but Blake and I have been working diligently to replace that with “bubble muffin.” Well, for a day, we tried. An hour. Whatever.

I may have accidentally tought him to lash out at objects that have hurt him. For example, he trips over a strewn shoe.

After brushing himself off, he approaches the shoe which has bullied him, he kicks the shoe, he screams “Bastard!” at the shoe, he fake-shoots the shoe.

I am horrible at this parenting shit. Thank god for Henry, unweaving the tangled and very inappropriate webs I weave. I like to imagine him lunging at said web with a machete, playing out his dream role in motherfucking ‘Nam. Hack that web, Henry. Do it for the USA. You patriotic fuck, you.

At least he’s not saying “Hey douche” anymore.

What else does my evil little spawn do. He craves high-fives for car line-ups he creates on the floor. If it’s a particularly remarkable car-train, he demands a coveted High-Five:Foot Edition, which is where the soles of our feet bro-up with each other, obviously.

He has a considerable amount of hair now, thank fucking god. However, he has two tendrils on either side that exceed the rest of his hair in length. Sometimes those tendrils, they curve up into the perfect Dairy Queen curl and he looks like he emigrated from Whoville.

And every day he begs to go to the “Ween Store,” which is the Halloween store for those who don’t speak toddler. We were at one last weekend, and when we aproached an excessive Halloween prop dragging its rotting cavity along the floor, Chooch grabbed my arm and, very earnestly, warned, “No, Mommy. Careful.” And no matter which Halloween store we’re patronizing, he always manages to find the mesh bag of plastic eyeballs and fills the store with his spoiled caterwaul when we tell him that unfortunately, a crack-addled hobo stole both of our wallets and now all of our money is being spent on Slim Jims and peg-legged hookers instead of bags of plastic optical party favors. Gosh darnit.

And while I love my son and his gigantor cranium, it is nice to have a job again, which affords me a few hours of peace at night.

 But I don’t tell Chooch that’s where I go at night or he’ll expect me to buy an acre of eyeballs. It’s better to let him believe Mommy’s getting shit-faced at the corner bar.

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. #
    

    ---

     

  • 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.

    #

• 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.