Which, it turns out, I have.
It makes a good neologism: pneumonosyllabic.
It makes me feel resigned, delinquent, vindicated and lonely all at the same time. In addition it makes me feel like I am harboring a small, belligerent, drooling alien in my left lung.
It reduces the scope of my parenting to smiling and nodding: how quaintly Victorian.
How I hate this.