Shinger Tacos and Shorks

So, I'm sure that most of you know that Peyton recently got stitches.  Again.  Second time in 3 months.  Here is how it happened...

Peyton had spent most of the morning "making pizza" out of her Play-doh.  She wanted to cut it but I sort of blew her off and told her that I needed to change Juju.  As I was putting Juju's pants back on, I heard a scream, followed by a crash, followed by panicked crying.  I rushed to the kitchen and found Peyton gripping her hand.  I asked what happened and she uncovered her hand.  Blood started gushing.  It was like a bloody finger version of Old Faithful.  When she saw the blood, she freaked out.  She started screaming, "I need a bandaid!"  I tried to apply pressure to it but she just kept flinging her hand around, getting blood everywhere.  It was on my kitchen floor, the refrigerator, my cabinets and counters, and on my bathroom floor and a little in the hallway.  Even now I keep finding tiny random blood speckles in weird places, like under the trash bin and on a box of cereal.

I pounded on Emily's door and she was kind enough to watch Juju so that I could take P to get stitches.  She even cleaned up nearly all of the blood.

The last time Peyton got stitches, she kept picking at them, which made the removal process nightmarish.  This time, we kept her finger wrapped.  She loved the bandage.  She called it her "finger taco."  She showed it to everybody and they always would ask, "How did that happen?"

Here's how.  She cut herself with a long, pronged knife, which she got out of the dishwasher because she wanted to cut her "pizza."  It has the two prongs on the end, and in Peyton's mind it must look sort of like a fork.  Peyton can't make an "f" sound.  It always comes out as a "sh" sound.  She has had the same conversation with dozens of people for over a week.  It goes like this:

Peyton: See my shinger taco?

Random Person: What happened?

Peyton: I cut myself.

Random Person:  How?

Peyton: On a shork!

Random Person: A shark!?

Peyton: (Slightly annoyed) A shork.  You know, like a dinglehopper.

Random Person: (Nodding like they understand, just so they can make the conversation stop)

The first time I heard her have this conversation, I laughed and laughed and laughed.  She got her stitches removed this weekend, but even as I type this, I am laughing.  I am laughing because my kid calls knives "forks."  And she calls forks "shorks."  And she calls shorks "dinglehoppers."  Kids don't come any cooler.  They probably do come with less scars, though.