It's not nucular science

"Mom, when's it gonna be time for munch?"
I looked down at my 5-year-old, who had run into my office after changing out of his church clothes.
"Do what?!" I said. "What are you talking about, 'munch'?"
He started bucking back and forth. "You know, you said we were gonna eat munch after church today."
"Oh, BRUNCH!" I laughed. I tried holding it in because he is a very serious old man inside a 5-year-old body and he hates getting stuff wrong. I tried to soften the blow.
"'Brunch' is when you combine 'breakfast' and 'lunch.' You know, like a 'spork.'" This explanation served as a jumping off point for names he thought they should have given brunch, such as "lekfast" and "brupper."
I enjoy these episodes because they prove Owen has inherited our family's infamous Granddaddy Disease, wherein he gets words wrong in the most entertaining ways just like my grandfather did. Probably the most enduring example is when my grandfather told us my grandmother was stressed out because she had to get her monogram that day. It took us a few tries to figure out she actually was having a mammogram.
On Fireman Sam the other day, a lady called a little boy a "hooligan." Owen said, "What did she call him?" His attempts to repeat it ranged from "hoogleland" to "hoolan" and kept us giggling and punchy for at least a few minutes.
My older boys had adorable baby words, like the way Henry used "cha-box" for lunchbox and Mason would say "walkamama" when he wanted me to come to him. But by age 5 they were pretty much ready for a spot on Jeopardy. Owen's mix-ups persist.
My favorite came out at age 3 when he threw himself backward on the couch and said, "Help me be a afroback (acrobat)."