Leave for goonching?

"Goonch goonch goonch."

I'm kind of guessing at the spelling, here.  Goonch goonch goonch is something we've started saying to Mr Bunches ever since Middle went for a ride with us and exposed us to that word.

Middle had stopped by one afternoon, and we were just hanging around, talking, when Mr F decided that he wanted to go for a ride.  That's how Mr F works: He'll just be sitting around, and then suddenly an idea pops into his head, an idea like this actual list of things Mr F has decided would be a good idea:

-- Go for a ride in the car.


-- Jump on the trampoline for 10 minutes and then lie down.


-- Break all of the cheese puffs into tinier cheese puffs and then throw them on the floor.

(There's a sliding scale of approval to these ideas.)  On this particular day, Mr F decided he wanted to go for a ride even though (or perhaps because) Middle was over.  So we got ready to go for a ride even though (or perhaps because) Middle was over and then we ran into a problem in that Mr Bunches did not want to go for a ride.

Mr Bunches wanted to stay home, and he let us know that by saying "Leave for home," which is how he tells us to stay somewhere.  He doesn't know the word stay yet; we're working on it.  So when you're sitting and watching SpongeBob with him and you decide that it's getting time that you got up and went to work because you have a job, you know, and you stand up, Mr Bunches will say "Leave for bed," to get you to stay sitting on his bed with him, and when you say you have to go somewhere with Mr Bunches and he doesn't want to go, he'll say "leave for home."

On the day we took the ride, Mr Bunches really didn't want to go, and all the usual bribes (he could bring his iPad, or his blanket, or we'd stop at McDonald's and get him a soda, the only thing he eats from McDonald's, usually)(and, weirdly, he won't drink soda from anywhere but McDonald's)(in the picture on this post, he's only pretending) weren't working, and each attempt to convince him to go for a ride made him more upset, to the point where he was crying.

(Don't be too worried about that.  Mr Bunches has taught himself to cry.  On cue.  One day, I was telling him to pick up Mousetrap because it was bedtime, and he said "No," and then I insisted, and he said "I'm sad," and I said "You don't look sad," and he looked at his reflection in the window, staring at it and concentrating until he started crying, and then he turned to me with a look of triumph and said "I'm sad," and I had to agree that he looked sad, so he got to do one more Mousetrap, which he insisted on by saying "leave for Mousetrap.")

For a brief moment, then, we tried to convince Mr F that he shouldn't go for a ride, but he was adamant; he even had his Crocs on, so what could we do?  We picked up Mr Bunches and loaded him into the car, where he cried and sulked, and we got Mr F in, and Middle came along, and we took a drive around town, as we so often do because the Babies! like to go for a ride and it gives Sweetie and I a chance to talk without staring at carpeting full of ground-in cheese puffs, which is nice.

On the ride, Middle was telling us about some reality show she watches in which there was a giant catfish that the locals called The Goonch, and when she got to that point, Mr Bunches yelled:

"No!  No Goonch!"

And ever since then, we will periodically say to Mr Bunches: "Goonch goonch goonch," and he's said "No!  No Goonch!"  And then we will debate the goonch with him:

"I think, yes, Goonch." we'll say.

"No Goonch!" he will insist.


And before you think that I am a horrible person for repeatedly reminding Mr Bunches that there is a goonch, keep in mind that (a) Mr Bunches yesterday made me play a game in which he would sit on the counter and pretend to fall off, and I had to then catch him and lift him over the volcano (which was actually our kitchen floor) and lift him to the other counter, where I would place him, and then we would repeat it.

We did that 20 times.  And even then, he didn't want to quit.  "Leave for volcano!" he told me, even as my arms were ready to fall off.

So sometimes, I figure, he can handle a goonching.  Besides, if he really didn't like it, he'd show me how sad it (pretend) makes him.

And (b) he says it to us, now, too.  He'll come up to me and say "Daddy, GOONCH GOONCH GOONCH."