When I was little, we used to go to visit my grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins in a place called You Nork. In my head, I still call it that sometimes.
Our two weird ones were “pasghetti” (our daughter) and “patteren” (our son). She says spaghetti right now, but he still cannot say pattern to save his life. He picked out a purse for me: we were looking at a black one and a brown one, and he said he liked the brown one because you could see the patteren better. I’ve gotten a lot of compliments about that purse.
Oh, my God, I have a million of these from working as a behavior therapist.
3-year-old student who used to say “music” as “boobies.” Whenever he wanted the CD player turned on, he would say, “More boobies pwease!”
Same little boy also used to call me, “Tootie,” and later, “Cookie,” as this was the best approximation of my name he could achieve.
A different 3-year-old used to drop the first letter of all his words. So “light” was “ight,” “muffin” was “uffin,” and hilariously, “waffle” was “awful.” “More awful!” he used to demand at breakfast.
He had lots of problems with transposing letters as well, so “tomato” was “tum-tayo.” “Spin” was “pins.” “Triangle” was “tri go go.” “Scooter” was “cougar.” One time we were playing with a flashlight and I put it under my chin and said, “Oooh, spoooky face!” He did the same thing with the flashlight and said, “Ooooh, fooosky!”
You had to be there.