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icky smoothness

I'm trying not to freak, but...
the kid's not eating.
She's pretty much subsisting on a diet of dried cereal, dried fruit (quantum servings of raisins, craisins, dried cherries, strawberries, apricots, & blueberries), and "yoga mulk", a stick-blended concoction of organic milk, yogurt, fruit, and Poly Vi Sol with Iron (thank you, liquid vitamin gods). Yes, i realize this is basically the toddler equivalent of a "power smoothie", but the word smoothie has always icked me out, and I just can't bring myself to use it. Blame it on a fixation with warped word-association, where my mind flips words the way hands flip cards during marathon rounds of solitaire. But in my version of the game? The two-faced Jack of Slick aligns with the unctuous Queen of Smoothie. every. time.
K dislikes the word, too.
We refer to said items as "blender drinks", as in:

"Know what i could go for right now? A big ol' blender drink!" or,
"I'm gonna make a blender drink. Want some?"

Synchronous dorks 'R' us nonconformity.
With parents like us, the kid's bound to rebel, and will likely grow up to become one slick, my-hip-is hipper-than-your-hip, coolhunter toady.
Either that, or she'll suffer irreversable nerd damage when her brain starts to frappé and whir through her colon, alá the iron-reeking raisin smoothie spillage she's been depositing of late.

Seriously, how much fruity roughage can one tot handle?

anamomda buys bunches of bulky bananas and blends them to bung-binding goo.

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