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.

I’m sitting at work, feeling all depressed for no good reason, and then Henry sends me this picture.

Sometimes having a Chooch is better than that bottle of vodka and crack pipe I often wish I had hidden in my desk. Thanks, Chooch.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 13:19 A Staples box has never before held such amazing treasures. #
• 16:21 Wearing new Chiodos shirt that arrived today, then I was behind someone w/ 5 CHIODO on their license plate on the way to work. MEANING?? #
• 17:46 Operation:Get Tina to Quit? Now in full effect. #
• 19:35 Tina is listening to Eye of the Tiger and gnashing popcorn with her teeth, classy broad that she is. #
• 22:49 my boss just gave me permission to call off tomorrow night so i can watch the game. best job ever. minus the scissors and tina. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter Now you can rest easy, knowing my inner most thoughts and movements.

I’d like to say he’s reflecting on life, but he’s probably just pooping or mapping out an escape route. In other dark holes of my brain, I’m planning another for-fun photo shoot so if any of you locals are interested, hit me up. I promise I won’t like, make you bleed or anything. Although, I have been kind of fixated with meat cleavers this week.

A final note: It’s an honor to know that people come to my blog by searching for "cummy-yummy " and "ass rape bitch." Clearly, a job well done on my part.

We didn’t have any milk in the house, and since cereal and oatmeal are the only things I can make marginally edible, Chooch got to eat popcorn for breakfast. What, it’s practically a vegetable.

(HENRY, DON’T EVER LEAVE US.)

Today, I took Chooch over my friend Jess’s. Usually I don’t have a car during the day, so whenever I go out with Chooch, Henry is with us too. But today was the day of Independence, so I loaded Chooch and all his shit in the car and after fifteen minutes of struggling with the car seat straps and retrieving all the shit I forgot in the house, we were finally ready to go.

We had to stop at CVS first to pick up some stuff for Jess. Apparently, Chooch is perfect when Henry takes him to the store. But with me, it’s always game time, so he was trying to get me to spin in circles and then wanted me to sit on the floor with him and he was pulling me in a trillion directions so I ended up having to hold him while we were in line and some old man was causing a ruckus over toilet paper and I was like, "Just pay for it, asshole, can’t you see I’m holding a eighty thousand pound toddler?"

After we left, I called Henry to tell him I appreciate him, because I can’t imagine being a single mom and having to do this shit on my own all the time. I get frazzled easily so I was nearly in tears, after struggling with the car seat again, and I think I ended the phone call by whimpering, "And I’m pretty sure his shoes aren’t on right." Pretty much the jokiest mother ever. Seriously, I’m useless. Unless it involves running around, screaming, and making up monster voices.

I even texted a heartfelt  "I<3u" to Henry again, out of desperation, and I think it had an effect on him because he bought me a new camera. Yes Henry, I’m keeping you. A proposal might be nice, too, though. Just a suggestion.

Jess just had a baby a week ago and named him Gavin. It was Chooch’s first time around a baby.  He was enrapt, confused, suspicious, annoyed, enamored all at once; his head was probably very near-explosion. Naturally, the first thing he did was go straight for the soft spot with his fist. He kept saying, "Baby!" and doing the sign for it. Then he was trying to tickle him, I think? I don’t know, but he was stabbing the baby with his finger and saying "diddle diddle" and it was weird. Usually, he puts up a good struggle when it comes time to have his diaper changed, but when he saw Jess changing Gavin’s diaper, he pulled me off the couch and said, "Uh-oh, pee" and patted his diaper. Then he layed down, willingly, on the floor, and remained calm and still while I changed him. If only it was always like that.

He started to get annoyed at the lack of attention, though. His remedy for that was standing on his head, slamming into walls, and performing a small sign language show for us. Then he would fall on purpose and say, "SOWWY!" Yes Chooch, we’re watching you. Yes Chooch, you’re amazing. I think it was his way of saying, "That baby is ok, but let’s not bring one home." Chooch, I just got my fat ass down to a size medium, so don’t worry: there are no babies in my future.

 My crazy aunt Sharon offered up my grandma’s porch for Chooch’s birthday party. Of course, she was in charge of the guest list, which she was adamant about keeping short and sweet. I was afraid to invite Henry’s kids for fear of suffering her impatient huffs and sighs. In fact, I was afraid to even invite MYSELF. But I kept my cool because the whole point of having it there was so my grandma could attend.

However, Henry was so turned off by the whole thing that he just had his mom and sister come over our house Friday night for cupcakes. (And also because we segregate our families. Completely not normal.)

In the end, I demanded that Janna and Christina at least be able to come. They’re my best friends and it would have been weird without them.

 And of course, at the last minute, Sharon called me to see if Henry’s kids were coming.

"No, I didn’t think I was allowed to invite them," I said, slightly snottily. Christina was sitting next to me and her eyes kind of widened. She told me later that she was afraid I was about to ignite some sort of family warfare, moments before the start of Chooch’s party.

"Of course they’re invited!" Sharon said sweetly. "You guys will only be here for an hour, what do I care who comes?"

Oh did I mention that? The party was only allowed to be an hour long. I joked on the way there that probably we’d pull into the driveway and Sharon would hand us cake slices in to-go bags and send us on our way. But I wasn’t really joking.

In typical Sharon fashion, she gifted him with a bunch of stuff that no kid would ever want for his birthday: A cars wastebasket and shower curtain complete with cars shower rod hangers, and a bath mat with…blue daisies on it.

Oh.

"Does he like flowers?" she asked.

Don’t all two-year-old boys like flowers? Like any other kid, he demands no less than five Lalique vases in his room, filled with the most pungent bouquet of daffodils. In fact, we just had him at the hospital last week, having a bunch of lilacs extracted from his nose.

We all kind of glanced around the table at each other, slinging "WTF?" expressions every time Sharon would turn her back. I mean, for a two-year-old? Home decor?

My grandma ended up having a bad headache (or so Sharon says; I think she’s holding her hostage), so she was unable to leave her bedroom. Chooch went in to visit her, and I gave him a dandelion from the yard to give to her, which Sharon took credit for. Then after meeting her socialization quota for the month, my mom wandered off into the den  to watch the Pens game. (Yay, Pens, btw.)

In the end, all that mattered was that Chooch had fun, Sharon was actually personable and didn’t kick us out after one hour exactly, and there was good cake, of which I ate plenty (with the Pennsylvania Vanilla ice cream I bought all by myself and with my own money!)

When Chooch was around four months old, I accidentally sliced skin while trimming his nails. There was blood, there was tears, and there was a split second when I realized this was my chance to eschew the term ‘boo boo’ from our household lexicon. It’s just one of those babyish words that I hate.  "Oh no, you got a Borden! You got a little Lizzie Borden on your finger, poor baby!"

Unfortunately, Chooch hasn’t had many spills resulting in any visible marring of the flesh (fortunately, I mean! Fortunately!), so the cute and fluffy term never had a chance to stick.

But apparently last night, Father of the Year allowed Chooch to fall on the sidewalk and scrape his knee. Now, I was at work when this happened, but to further plow Henry’s good name straight into a landfill of shit, I like to imagine that when it happened, he was too busy slurping dented cans of Schlitz and thumbing through the Yellow Pages looking for bait shops and hookers while Chooch wandered around in a stupor of neglect, diaper hanging open on one hip and poop crusted on his hands.

This morning, we were sitting on the couch and I noticed his little scrape on the knee. He saw me looking at it and said, "Boo boo!" Goddammit! No! Every time he said it, I quickly corrected him. "Yeah, you got a Borden! Ouchie!" I can just hear Henry in my head, teaching him that it’s a booboo. "Oh no buddy, you got a BOO BOO! Now let’s go inside and I’ll give you your BINKY and we’ll watch BARNEY and sing HANNAH MONTANA songs!" So I pointed to the scrape again and said, "Happy birthday, Chooch. That was Daddy’s gift to you."