Under normal circumstances, I and most people I know pronounce the word “mustache” as “mus-STASH.” For a few weeks now, Fritz has been working on memorizing The Children’s Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow which includes this lovely line:
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?
When I first read it, it seemed more flowing to soften the “uh” sound to an “oo” so it came out more like “moos-STASH.”
“MOOS-stash?” asked Fritz.
“Yeah, mus-STASH. He’s defining himself by one feature on his face. It’s a literary technique…blah blah blah,” said Teacher-Mom.
Yes, all he really cared was that he was now at liberty to pronounce a word differently. And now all my children, for weeks it’s been going on, look for excuses to use that word.
Whenever they drink milk, a more-than-once-a-day occurrence, they ask each other, “Do I have a MOOS-stash?” “No,” comes the reply, “do I have a MOOS-stash?”
“Daddy should grow a MOOS-stash!”
“Hey, the UPS driver has a MOOS-stash!”
I’m afraid to take them out in public lest they single out every man with facial hair and talk about him in loud voices with odd-sounding words!