Believe it or not, my husband and I have our share of disagreements.  Sure, we look like a hot, steamy, ultra photogenic couple in love, but underneath all of the amorous gestures is a relationship fraught with tension; mostly because he has yet to come to terms with the fact that I’m always right.

Our latest “spat,” if you will, revolves around our youngest son Ian and his occasional mispronunciation of certain vocabulary words.  I think it’s darling, and make it a point not to correct him; it’s a fleeting phase and I want to preserve it for as long as I possibly can.

My husband however, is on some holier than thou “it’s our job to teach our kids about the world, including, but not limited to, proper vowel-consonant-vowel pronunciation" rant.

So I’ve decided to compromise; I let my him correct Ian, and when he’s off at work I undo it by acting like I don’t know what the hell Ian is saying until he goes back to saying it the wrong way.

Mommy, could I please have some noodles?

“What sweetheart?  I can’t understand you when you talk in that silly voice!”

“Mommy, could I pweeze have some nerdles, goo-goo-gaa-gaa?”

“Of course sweetheart!  Thank you for asking me properly this time!”

 Works every time.

So far, my husband hasn’t caught on; he thinks Ian just needs a tutor. Or two.

Plus, if for some reason my plan backfires and we take Ian to the Olive Garden for his 25th birthday* and he orders the Pasghetti with Maryana sauce, I’ll just blame it on the public school system.

Or those crappy tutors I “hired.”

*because we’re fancy like that


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