He's seven. He calls it "pasketti." Has for years. And I have never once told him it's wrong.
It's the last one, see. All the other baby words got sanded down over time — the wonky R's, the words he'd chop in half. School and time did their thing and now he mostly talks like a proper little person. "Pasketti" is the sole survivor.
Half my brain is fully aware I'm being irresponsible here. Kids are ruthless. Some classmate is going to clock it and he's going to come home embarrassed and it'll be because I sat on it.
The other half hears him ask for pasketti at dinner and just... can't. Not yet. The day I correct it is the day the baby's fully gone, and I'm not ready to sign off on that. One more month. I keep saying one more month.