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.

Hoo boy, it’s that time of year again.  Henry the Work Horse has set up his station at the dining room table and has already been churning out Christmas cards. So before he has a chance to take a breather, I figured I’d remind the rest of the Internet that serial killer holiday cards do in fact exist.

In addition to the ones pictured above, I’m working on some new cards for the 2010 season. Be on the look out for some jolly H.H. Holmes action and a mistletoe-thrusting Aileen Wuornos.

And for a limited time, just for you Oh Honestly, Erin readers, I’m offering a BOGO promotion. Just leave me a “message to seller” on Etsy upon check out and include the code THREE PIEROGIES, then let me know which card you’ve selected as the freebie.

Don’t see your favorite murderer pictured above? Leave a comment and tell me who should be on the next card!

We didn’t have much time after eating breakfast at the Traveler’s Club International Restaurant (it doubles as a TUBA MUSEUM and was a great pick by our tour guides, Bill & Jessi) because I had this dire urge to see the world’s largest cuckoo clock in Sugarcreek, Ohio. Every time I brought it up to Henry, he tugged on his collar and looked around for diversions, chainsaw guys, ditches in which to push me.

I wouldn’t drop it, though, and continued down the list of merits I had made for the cuckoo clock.

By 2:00pm, we were on the road. We made a quick stop in Luna Pier, because seeing Lake Erie was another very pressing thing on my list. Sure, I’ve seen Lake Erie from Pennsylvania and Ohio, even took a boat tour in Cleveland (if you were me, you too could live such a thrilling life). But I really needed to see it from MICHIGAN.

That fruity red dot of menstruation up there is Henry.

This is the closest thing to a beach we’ve come to since that shitty fucktastic trip to Okracoke we took in 2006 with those asshole Civil War reenactors. Chooch and I kicked off our shoes and took off.

Henry’s feet never even touched the sand.  “It’s just Lake Erie,” he kept saying, while Chooch and I squealed and frolicked like Hansel and Gretel dining on the witch’s carcass. Spectators probably thought we had just been let out of our cage in the basement. Henry does resemble a grizzled captor. In fact, on our way to Michigan, I mouthed “help” to the girl in the toll booth. Thanks for all the help, whore.

After Luna Pier, A LOT of driving happened. I found religious programming on the radio and pretended to be holy for a good hour while Henry scowled and periodically asked, “Can we turn this now?” while Chooch read his comic books quietly in the backseat. Jesus music is calming. Or maybe it’s hypnotic. In either case, it zipped my child’s lips, so praise be to Jesus and his Lambs of Christ.

At some point in Ohio, we turned off the highway and found ourselves up to our ears in Amish. (Henry says they were Mennonites, so we argued about that for awhile.) We rounded a bend and an old Amish man was standing on the side of the road.

I screamed.

“What? He’s probably just waiting for a buggy,” Henry reasoned.

“He looked to me like he was cursing us bastard civilians,” I argued. And then, “What happens if you run over an Amish person?”

Henry averted his eyes from the road long enough to look at me in disgust. “Um, you go to JAIL. They are people,” he reminded me. “Not animals.” A minute passed and I heard him repeat my question under his breath, shaking his head in exhaustion.

I didn’t know if they utilized the same legal system as us, OK? Jesus Christ, Henry. I thought maybe they left it up to the Lord; chased you around the farm with pitchforks, Benny Hill-style.

Aside from Amish culture, other things that jack off my fascination are all things Bavarian and Swiss, hence my determination to see this fucking cuckoo clock. Some of my fondest memories  are from childhood trips to Europe, helping my grandparents pick out cuckoo clocks in the Black Forest and traversing covered bridges in Lucerne. Eating fondue and watching lederhosened men blow into those Ricola horns. That’s always been my favorite region of Europe. And since returning there is nowhere in my near future, making pilgrimages to chintzy, kitschy Swiss-American tourist traps is the best I can do to keep my heart full of Toblerone and army knives.

I regaled Henry with stories from these past vacations while he prayed the GPS on his phone wasn’t leading us to our fate of becoming shoo-fly pie filling.

“You weren’t even listening to me,” I whined as he consulted his phone.

“Yes I was, and I’ve heard all of those stories before.”

Bastard. What a fucking bastard.

Here are some of my tweets from the Great Cuckoo Clock Pursuance, to give you a real-time feel for the awesomeness of being in our car:

About the same time my phone lost service, we crossed the threshold for the town of Sugarcreek, Ohio’s Swiss Wonderland.

The bad vibes were immediate. Something made me feel uncomfortable; maybe it was the lack of people and how it caused the town to be quiet as a graveyard. I don’t even really remember many cars passing by, although we did see a cop idling in a parking lot with a book.

The downtown portion of Sugarcreek was quaint, charming. But also mostly deserted. There seemed to be some people in one of the restaurants, which has swiss steak on special. I wanted to go. Not to eat the swiss steak, but to see what the townies were like. Henry said no, of course. Why eat at a real restaurant when we can stop at a gas station and get hot dogs?! (Because that’s seriously what he did. And I got a Special K bar. Now there’s a real meal to say grace for.)

Henry’s GPS alerted him to make a left off the main road. A few feet later, I saw it.

And it was in pieces.

I didn’t tell Henry this, but a Roadside America user posted a tip saying that as of March, the cuckoo clock was out of commission for repairs. If I told him that, he definitely wouldn’t have taken the chance. But I thought maybe it might have been all bandaged up by then and ready to cuckoo. I needed to see for myself.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Henry muttered. But we got out of the car anyway. Chooch and I went over for a closer inspection while Henry leaned against the car, texting his work boyfriend about what an awful lay his shitty girlfriend is.

Further research (which would have been helpful prior to making this ridiculous detour) informed me that pieces of the clock have been auctioned off, including the evergreens and little  Swiss people.

Shit, I thought driving through the town was creepy? Poking around this over-sized clock at dusk was even more spine-tingling. I had a distinct sensation that townies were watching us from their windows, sizing us up  for future cuckoo clock adornments. Can you picture a taxidermied-Chooch twirling out from the clock’s bowels every hour? Because I kind of can. I ushered him back into the car, ducking around Henry’s choleric glare.

“We should come back for the Swiss Festival in October,” I suggested, reading  from the town’s official website on my phone. I looked up just in time to see Henry vivisecting me with his mind.

Somewhere between more Amish arguments (which found Henry yelling, “Shoo fly pie is regional!”) and crossing the Pennsylvania border, two vultures nearly careened into (MY SIDE OF) the windshield.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong on the Dark Side of Etsy, like I’m not dark enough or goth enough (but they’ve never made me feel unwanted!).  Because of this, I’ve been a little self-conscious when assigned a member to gift for the birthday swap. What if they think whatever I send them is too “fun” or “whimsical”? Short of splashing my paintings with pigs blood, I pretty much just wing it.

But this month, the person I was given to gift expressed an interest in lomography, so I sent her the photo below and its accompanying story. She in turn told me that the photo and story were disturbing, and that her daughter asked, “What is wrong with her?” For a member of the Dark Side to think something of mine is creepy and disturbing? Best compliment ever.  

I don’t usually re-post my “super gay stories,” but I wanted to give this one another spin, since it was so well-received the other day. Just let me bask for a minute, alright? Christ.

And hey! If you want your own copy (which is printed on really cool metallic paper, by the way!), you can get it here.

Sally should not have been surprised when she was turned away at the door.

“But I was invited!” she insisted, coffee-stained invitation curved around the womb of her hands. She held it up to the man’s face, pulling it taut so he could see that her name, in adolescent lower-case, was penciled in at the top. Her name, it was there! Her name was right there next to the day-old coffee splash that looked like Hitler; right there, preceeding the typed words IS INVITED.

Laughter flitted from the bowels of the banquet hall. He flicked the invitation, knocking it loose from Sally’s grip and slamming the door in her snout. “No pigs invited!” she heard several revelers shout in unison, followed by more hideous laughter. “Pig’ll eat all the food!” The cruel heckling made the bile effervesce within Sally. For a brief moment, she could taste its sour flavor as it burned against her uvula. She swallowed it.

She tried to swallow the hideous laughter, too.

Fifty-three minutes later, Sally sat in her parked car at a truck stop just a few miles outside of town. She numbly nibbled on the sandwich that was handed to her through a window by an androgynous teen with a snarled upper lip, Sally’s own pout puckering involuntarily as her tongue moved over a spot of bread, moist from pickle sweat. Choking back a sloppy slurp of lemonade, Sally cried out bitterly, “I belong no where!

” She groped in the darkness of her car, until her fingers eventually came up with a pen.

You might not know it yet but you will be sorry. Sorry for slamming doors in my face, for flushing my poems down the commode. You will be sorry for not letting me carole with you that one Christmas in 1987.

As a child, Sally was invited to parties only because her father was the principal; parents used her spot on birthday guest lists to keep their own slovenly spawn from flunking out of third grade. And Sally, so full of jubilance, would put on her best Laura Ashley, and she would step into her best Mary Janes, and she would wrap the present in the best foiled paper. And last, she would pull on her rubber pig mask.

In front of her father, all the kids would chant “Oh Sally’s here! Oh, Sally, Sally, Sally!” But then the door would shut behind her and her father and his little green Pinto would be a dot on the horizon.

You might not know it yet, but you will see that my headgear did not define me, that my stutter was not a reason to make me a cafeteria pariah.

You might not know it yet, but my halitosis was bearable under the supervision of Altoids.

And then it was, “Oops, Sally, I didn’t mean to tear your dress” [as Mary Misslegap swiped at the silken floral with a boxcutter] and “Uh oh, Sally’s having her period!” [courtesy of Agatha Angelfuck pollacking her with Heinz] and “Sorry, Sally, there’s no cake left for you” [as Tommy Wettail smeared it on her face like paste, snapping her bra for the cherry on top]. And there would be that hideous laughter again. Sally would swallow that hideous laughter and go home.

You might not know it yet, but you will realize that I had things to say, ideas to share, if you could have only seen past my muffin top, past my cleft palate. You will realize that the brown stain on my white trousers in Spanish class senior year was mud, not shit from my own self.

And even after all of that, Sally was willing to give her old peers a second chance when the invitation arrived that day. YARDLY GREEN HIGH SCHOOL’S TENTH REUNION it said in an elegant script. Sally, who had too much hope for humanity, was anxious to show off her poker straight teeth and Kathy Lee knock-off. But Sally, whose better judgement raped her thoughts with reality, couldn’t help but falter in her step when she arrived at the hotel that night.

You might not know it yet, but I don’t care about your Better Homes and Garden wedding. And I don’t care your child was born with Downs Syndrome. And I don’t care about how you feel about me. Not anymore.

Sally should have known she was only invited as entertainment, one more lashing for the social reject. It was just like grade school, only now the cruelty was liquor-enhanced. Sally should have known there would be no punch-drinking and name tag-wearing for her that night. But now, parked next to a rocking eighteen-wheeler with frosted windows, Sally knew; and soon they would too.

You might not know it yet, but I am unable to swallow that hideous laughter.You might not know it yet, but I was really fucking good at Chemistry.

Sally had just added the final flourish to her signature when her pen bled its last drop of ink. Sally folded the coarse brown napkin she had been writing on and peeled off the pig mask;  with a forceful stab to her carotid, she used the sanguine ink to scrawl ATTENTION: ALL OF MY WORST CRITICS on the top of the note.

And that is exactly what a mulletted trucker in a camo vest was reading, coagulated in blood and pickle juice from a half-eaten Hoagie Hocker sub, when the bomb went off at that hotel with the hideous laughter.

I have a Roadside America app on my phone (which Henry just LOVES because it veers us so far off course) which I had been snooping around on before we left for Michigan.  I figured Chooch wouldn’t be able to be cooped up inside Warriors 3 all day and we need diversions (little did I know I could have left without him and he never would have noticed).

While sitting in the VIP room of the shop, I asked everyone if they knew how to get to the Heidelberg Project. It popped up in the app as something that was nearby, which excited me because I had read about it before, a few years back. Roadside America billed it as an urban junkscape and I am a huge fan of found art projects so I already knew I wasn’t going home until I got to see it. Plus, its creator, Tyree Guyton, has already had numerous run-ins with the city of Detroit bulldozing sections of it right out from under him, so who knows how much longer the Project will continue to thrive.

We were just going to go alone, the three of us, but Bill and Jessi offered to take us because they had never seen it either. I felt guilty pulling them away from the shop (especially after an old friend of Jessi’s showed up just to see her while we were gone) but they kept assuring me they wanted to go.

We took their car so I didn’t get to taunt anyone in the inner city with my Penguins flag. Considering the things I saw out of the window on the way there, perhaps that was a good thing.

Bill and Jessi made sure I didn’t miss the gratuitously humongous Uniroyal tire on the side of the road, which I learned from the Roadside America app that it used to be a FERRIS WHEEL. Bill and Jessi didn’t tell me that. They’re horrible tour guides. (<—THIS IS A JOKE.) I cheerfully checked off the Uniroyal tire as “Been there.” Then I posted it to Facebook to complete the full obnoxious experience.

I teared up a little when we pulled into the street that houses the Project. There’s something really special about taking random discarded items, things that are trash to most people, and using it to breathe life back into a dilapidated urban area. To me, it transcends art.

And now I will let the photos tell the rest.

Jessi and I being shocked and awed by beautiful junk.

I want to go back there today.

The plan upon leaving was to order Thai food to bring back to the shop, but my little purple and yellow painted fingers just wouldn’t quit tapping along through the Roadside America app. I soon learned that there was a giant neon kielbasa sign a mere 2 miles away. Bill was quick to agree to take us there, giving away his latent desire to deep throat mechanical meats.

Giggling deviously deep in my throat, I checked the kielbasi off my list and posted it to Facebook.

“Are you playing some sort of Bingo?” Bill asked, trying to figure out why I was so hyper about neon sausages and elephantine roadside tires.

Henry mumbled something from the seat next to me, but I was unable to decipher it. He’s probably just jealous he can’t have apps on his hick phone.

Then we ordered Thai food from a restaurant in Dearborn, which is where Sahar from the latest Real World is from, you guys! I wanted to try and find her to see if she still has that cold, or if that’s just always how she talks.

I should have added her to Roadside America.

Our friend Bill and two of his friends realized their dreams by opening their very own comic and gaming shop in Wayne, Michigan. The grand opening was set for Labor Day weekend.

“You know,” Henry postulated a week prior. “If you wanted to go to the opening, I bet we could swing it.”

Since I was brought on as a permanent employee at The Law Firm, we’ve been decidedly less stressed. In fact, one day I was sitting in the car thinking to myself, “What is that weird feeling I feel? Oh. I do believe that’s called ‘relief’.” Bill and Jessi come to Pittsburgh quite often to visit us, have been to Chooch’s last two birthday parties, and even one of my game nights, so I was like, “Hell yes, let’s do this.” I wanted to be there in person to show our support! And also to drive around the outskirts of Detroit with my Penguins flag waving proudly atop my car.

Saturday morning, I was up at 6:00am and ready to go. Henry and Chooch didn’t wake up until 7:00 and 7:30, respectively, and we didn’t hit the road until 8:30. I was angry about this, and Henry decided this would be a good time to flirt with me, which only succeeded in deepening my scowl.

The ride was pretty uneventful and long as shit. It only should have taken us about 5 hours to get there, but with a four-year-old in the backseat, that’s never going to happen without a hearty dose of Nyquil. Since I forgot the Nyquil, we pretty much stopped at every fucking rest area so Chooch wouldn’t petrify in his car seat.

At the one rest stop, he got a kids meal at Burger Meal. “What?” he exclaimed dramatically, extracting a girl toy from the bag.

“Go give it back to the lady at the counter,” I advised, and then Henry piggy-backed my advice by advising I go with him.

Chooch shrugged his way through the travelers crowding the front of Burger King, slammed the girl purse thing onto the counter and spat, “I’m not a GIRL.”

He got some plush Wrestler thing that makes a noise that I would end up hearing for the rest of the trip.

At another rest stop, we were parked next to Border Control. Henry, being the wise old man that he is, explained that he was probably here checking for drugs.

“And with a dog like that,” he said, gesturing to the German Shepherd accompanying the officer, “you’d be screwed if you even just had a marijuana cigarette.”

“Marijuana cigarette?” I repeated, losing it. And then it turned into a five-minute laugh fiesta, with Henry frowning as he drove down the highway. Sometimes it’s like talking to your Grandpa Elmer. What a lamer, I mean really. Then I couldn’t stop picturing an adolescent Henry, trying to fit in with the “bad” kids at school, pushing up his glasses and asking for a hit of their “marijuana cigarette.” Now I’m laughing all over again.

It was about 2:00pm by the time we finally arrived at Warriors 3. We were warmly received by Bill and Jessi and ushered into the backroom, which quickly became the VIP room upon my arrival. Don’t let them fool you. We were just in time for pizza, which Henry ate hungrily, and I finally got to meet Bill and Jessi’s friend Josh, who I’ve gotten to know from Twitter and Facebook over the last year, so that was extremely cool and conversation with him came easily. It didn’t take him long to start busting my chops, and I like that. It makes me feel loved!

Aimee, the girlfriend of one of the Warriors 3, was also in the VIP room and I could tell Chooch was crushing on her pretty hard. He kept looking at her for approval every time he would say something. And speaking of Chooch, now I know where to take him the next time he needs stimulated. It was like he was in his own Wonderland. There were toys and games every where and grown-ups were actually playing with him.

“Will you play with me?” he’d ask any random guy, who would usually wind up saying, “Sure, dude,” provided they weren’t already involved in a game. Chooch would look at me in amazement, like, “I can’t believe they keep saying YES!”

Chooch also brought some of his own toys with him, and Josh sang the theme from the Hulk cartoon, which made Chooch look at me and laugh. He just had this expression on his face that screamed, “These guys know my toys?!” At one point, he was pawing through a box of HeroClix (I’m so proud of myself for remembering the name of those; I was completely out of my element there, but enjoyed learning about this stuff!), and no matter which one he pulled out, there was always someone near by who could tell him what he was holding. Which was better than when he kept asking me, only to get my patented ‘I dunno’ mumble.

Josh answers a HeroClix inquiry for Chooch while his critically acclaimed Cthulu supervises and Eddie stews in his AT&T hatred.

I’m convinced Chooch thinks Bill is his big brother.

Chooch got to help Joe, the honorary 4th Warrior, advertise outside the shop. He was thrilled to be involved, and I was thrilled that there was enough going on to keep him thoroughly entertained. I figured we’d have to do a lot of coming and going to ensure his attention was well-kept. Aside from getting a little too wild on occasion, I didn’t have to really go out of my way to keep him in line. It was nice being able to hang out without my nerves keeping me clenched.

At one point, Joe decided to demonstrate how fast the Flash could run around the building, which inspired Chooch to yell, “Hey, I can do that too!” and before I had the chance to snag him by the collar, he was off. So then I had to chase after him, while he was chasing after the Flash, and I’m sure to the casual observer it looked like some kind of Retard Race.

He must have fallen at least a dozen times while we were there that day. Sometimes I really do want to staple bubble wrap to him.

“Do I really have to remind you that you were JUST in the hospital?” I found myself yelling once every 30 minutes.

The mom of one of Bill’s friends baked a bunch of cookies and brownies, which were all tied up with ribbons and laying deliciously in baskets. Henry chose an iced sugar cookie and proceeded to obsess over it all weekend. Someone found an extra one and gave it to Henry, which made Josh jealous. He disappeared for awhile, and I’m not convinced he wasn’t trying to train his Cthulu to slaughter Henry and return with the cookie.

That was one damn fine cookie, though.

This was no less than 5 minutes after he was sprawled out on his stomach in the back parking lot, M&Ms scattering everywhere

At least now I know where to get his Christmas presents.

Bill and Jessi’s friend Nick would up playing with Chooch for a good hour. He was such a sweet and patient man! I kept mouthing “thank you!” to him and he’d just smile and wave me off, as though playing with a four-year-old was exactly what he signed up for when he walked into Warriors 3. When people take a liking to my kid, it’s the best feeling in the world. So I really did appreciate it, and I also appreciated the fact that everyone talked to him like he was just one of the guys.

When Chooch is at the playground, he gets so excited and wants to play with everyone, but I feel like more often than not, he’s not included with the other kids; as a mom, that’s one shitty scene to have to stand there and watch. Because of that, I think he really does prefer to hang out with adults, and the fact that he was able to wrangle some of them to play games with him at the shop really made him light up. I’ve never seen Chooch so non-distracted. He sat at that table playing diligently for a good portion of the time we were there (which was from 2 until about 11:30pm, minus two hours in the evening when we cut out to do some touristy shit). Of course, everyone pretty much let Chooch play the way he wanted to, which was smart because I tried to read the directions for some of those games and felt as frustrated as I did trying to translate the Iliad in high school.

Now Chooch wants to own all of these games, and I’m like, “That’s great, but can we just stick to comic books for now?” as I envision elaborate pieces strewn all over the floor of my house. Board games with  many pieces makes me nervous, you guys!

Comic books are not the worst things he could be into, so I approve.

Warriors 3 is a fantastic shop which kept up a steady crowd throughout the day, deservedly so. I’m so proud of Bill and Jessi and their friends for making it happen, and I’m glad I got to be there for the grand opening and to finally meet so many of the people I’ve heard so much about. Fine, I’m also glad I got to meet Josh, and the fact that he MADE FUN OF ME the whole time just made me feel more included. So there!

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.

Drove all the way to Wayne, Michigan today to hang up my bathroom plaque at Warriors 3.

OK fine – and to hang out with the shop’s proprietors!

Be back later. Peace out, girl scout!

(PS Bill just said Pink Floyd sucks and my left eyeball shot out from the sheer idiocy of that statement.)

There was a bakery box on my desk when I got to work last night. A small yellow post-it was labeled “Chooch-cakes” – Kaitlin had baked get well cupcakes for Chooch.

I seriously almost cried, it was so thoughtful!

“I tried to make some of them as much like zombies as possible,” Kaitlin pointed out.

“But since I’m scared to death of them, I don’t keep a lot of zombie provisions on hand.”

Co-workers kept stopping in their tracks, noticing the bakery box on my desk. Once they learned why it was given to me, you could almost see their brains churning out self-injury ideas so they could get their own sympathy treats from Kaitlin.

After work, I got in the car and showed Chooch. He honestly lit up; bloody, bruised lip and all.

He immediately tore into one of the zombie cakes, which left a blood-like smear all over his mouth.

Memories!

But at least THIS blood was edible.

He was so happy. It meant so much to me that Kaitlin would do something so thoughtful for my son, whom she hasn’t even met.

Of course, Henry ate 95% of the contents of the box which I think is bullshit, considering he wouldn’t let me bash him in the mouth with a slab of concrete first.

Goddamn Henry.

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.

Henry’s Porn Hand.

This is what happens when one carelessly knocks over an entire rack of PORN in the back of a seedy video rental store.

Circa 2007. Thems was the days, ya’ll.