Fwowy

Daphne came to me, a bundle of indignation. "Stuwot said...!" she began. Most of her eruptions of indignation start with these words.

"Stuwot said it was a fwowy pen! It's NOT a fwowy pen!"

I gazed at her blankly for a moment, giving her time to repeat herself at least twice. Finally I guessed, "It's not a frozen pen?"

"No! Fwowy! FWOH-WEE."

This was tricky. The /w/ sound could be L or R -- or W itself. The /f/ sound could be F or TH, although she often pronounces /th/ as /h/ (she refers to items she can't name as "hingies").

I tried evasive action. "I'm sorry he said that."

"Tell him NOT to say that!"

I imagined myself telling Stuart, "Don't say it's a fwowy pen." No, that would make things even more complicated. I hazarded a couple more guesses: "Flowy pen? Furry pen?" No, no, NO.

Finally I admitted defeat. "Honey, I can't understand the word you're trying to say."

Daphne never, ever admits defeat. (If she realizes she's lost an argument, she'll say, "I want you to stop talking.") She obligingly pronounced it slowly for me. "F-w-oh-w-e-e-e." I remained unenlightened.

Then she gave the the key to cracking the code: "He fwew it and I said don't and he said it was a fwowy pen."

Oh. OH! "He threw it? You mean he said it was a throwy pen?"

"Yes! A fwowy pen! And it's NOT!"

"Right. It's not a throwy pen. You're absolutely right."

Satisfied in her rightness, Daphne smiled at me and wandered away. I was left feeling a little tired, but with a new term at my disposal. When something takes more effort than it's actually worth -- like understanding a stupid argument between siblings -- it's fwowy.

You heard it first here.

-- SJ