"My fodder hurts..."

The other night PK was kinda listless and not her usual bouncy self.
We asked her what was wrong and if anything hurt.
She said "...my fodder hurts."

Let me explain.

For the last two months, for 3-days a week, PK's been attending the 3-year old Pre-K program at the Catholic School across the street. It's convenient, safe, clean, a good deal for the money, and we're fairly good friends with her teacher.

In the first few months, PK has learned the pledge of allegiance, the golden rules, the lyrics and melodies to several songs (both patriotic and those of Christian dogma), how to stand in line, how not to complain about cafeteria food, and the difference between a skirt, a skort, and a jumper -- okay, that last one was actually something I learned.

Being a Catholic institution, she also came home one day with a new skill -- the art of something called the Holy Rosary...or at least the opening line of it. Along with the words ("In the name of the Father, the Son...) she learned what I call the "Holy Rosary Vogue" -- using her right hand to make a cross starting on her forehead, down to her chest, over to her left then right shoulder.

All making sense now?

So when she tells us that her "fodder" hurts (pointing to her forehead) we take her temperature and give her a dose of cherry flavored children's Tylenol.