Probably the most derogative term we use around here is "pickle," as in "You're being a real pickle." (Actually, come to think of it, the most most most derogative term is probably "semi-Pelagian," but this is a G-rated blog.)  It started long before the children were born, before Ethan and I were even married. In fact, I grew up being called a pickle when I was ornery (that's when I wasn't being called a cactus for resisting parental hugs/kisses).

Ethan and I just naturally started calling each other pickles when we were in mild disagreement, or slightly irritated, or even on all-out opposite sides of an issue (like which side should face out when you hang a new toilet paper roll -- we CANNOT agree on this. But I am right.).

But Sunday brought a new twist to the name-calling. We noticed the outside light to Ethan's study (off the garage) was on. Ethan asked, "All right, who was peeking in my study?"

Miriam (4) answered, "Probably Abraham, because his shirt was all wet the other day."

It took me a second before I realized what she was talking about, and then it hit me. "No, Papa said, 'Who was PEEKING in my study?' not 'Who was PEEING in my study?' " (Just a note: Abraham was not peeing in Ethan's study, either. Remember, this is his twin taking advantage of a chance for him to get in trouble.)

"OHHHHH," she said.

But Miriam hates to be wrong, and she fumed for a while before she came up with the just-right slight for me, the one who had corrected her.

"Mama! You're such a pickle! You're just a ... just a ... just a SIN pickle! You're a BLOOD pickle!"

I don't know what to do about this. She has raised the insulting to another level by creating a whole new category.

The Lord's Day Insult.

Huh.