par Bill Tiepelman
Squish Squad
The Sacred Order of the Squish In a rose-covered corner of a sleepy village nestled somewhere between the Land of Milk and Belly Laughs, there lived a baby named Pippa. She was a pint-sized tyrant of cuteness, armed with a rosebud mouth, violently kissable cheeks, and an unexplainable mastery of facial squishery. Birds chirped when she giggled. Grown men cried when she pouted. And grandmothers fainted dead away when she made her “pucker face,” a maneuver so powerful it had once derailed a church service and temporarily shut down the town’s entire Wi-Fi grid. Pippa lived with her human parents, an exceptionally lazy cat named Dave, and most importantly, Sir Butterbean—a roly-poly English bulldog puppy with more wrinkles than a laundry pile and the emotional range of a wet sponge. He snored like a chainsaw dipped in pudding and loved two things above all: belly rubs and pretending to be emotionally unavailable. Naturally, Pippa had declared him her soulmate. Every morning, after their breakfast of mashed bananas (Pippa) and mashed couch cushions (Butterbean), the two would toddle and waddle their way to the back garden—an explosion of rose petals, moss, and suspiciously judgmental gnomes. Here, on their well-worn mossy patch, they enacted their ancient morning ritual: the **Kiss of the Squish.** Now this was no ordinary peck. No dainty smooch. This was a full-lipped, squish-powered, squinty-eyed smacker that could startle birds mid-flight. Pippa would close her eyes, push her cheeks forward like two freshly risen buns, and lunge toward Butterbean’s jowly face with the might of a thousand grandmas armed with lipstick. Butterbean, who had long since resigned himself to his fate, would close his eyes like a saint accepting martyrdom and brace for impact. Their cheeks would meet with a noise somewhere between a squelch and an angel sigh. The world would pause. Gnomes would salute. Somewhere, a rainbow would burp itself into existence. And thus, the Order of the Squish would be reaffirmed for another day. But what neither Pippa nor Butterbean knew was that something far bigger than mashed banana and smooshed affection was brewing in their sleepy cottage garden. Something that involved an enchanted pacifier, a squirrel cult, and a retired garden hose named Gerald. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, let us return to the garden. The roses blushed in full bloom. The air was thick with love, mischief, and the distant whiff of diaper ointment. And deep within the soft folds of Pippa’s giggle and Butterbean’s belly, the greatest adventure of their tiny lives was just beginning... The Secret Smooch Society Later that afternoon, as the sun hung low and lazy like a golden yolk on the edge of a nap, the air in the garden shifted. The wind fluffed Pippa’s curls just so, and Butterbean—mid-snore, upside down with his tongue lolling out and one paw twitching from a dream of chasing his own tail—snorted awake. His eyes opened slowly, like rusted garage doors. He blinked twice. Something was off. The roses were whispering again. He turned to Pippa, who was sitting in a mossy tuft wearing nothing but her floral diaper cover and a serious expression. She was chewing on a wooden spoon she had somehow smuggled out of the kitchen in her onesie’s buttflap pocket. That’s when it happened. Out from behind the hydrangeas shuffled an assembly of creatures so ridiculous, so wonderfully absurd, that even the garden gnomes narrowed their ceramic eyes in curiosity. There was a one-eyed squirrel in a satin cape. A rooster wearing sunglasses and cowboy boots. A raccoon who appeared to be carrying a clipboard and a great deal of emotional baggage. And leading the charge was Gerald—the retired garden hose—dragging his rubbery body through the gravel like a washed-up sea serpent on a mission. “It is time,” said the raccoon gravely, holding up the clipboard. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The Chosen Squish has awakened.” “Bwoof?” Butterbean grunted, blinking with the intensity of someone who had just eaten a dandelion and was questioning every life choice. Gerald reared his hosey length into the air like a makeshift cobra and hissed, “Silence, Squish-Bearer! She must complete the Trials before the Equinox of Giggletide. Or the garden shall be lost to... The Nibblers.” “Nope,” whispered the raccoon, flipping the clipboard, “wrong script. That’s from the Dandelion Cult. Sorry, Gerald.” Gerald sagged in a wave of apologetic hose, then composed himself. “Still. Trials. Destiny. That part’s legit.” Before Butterbean could crawl back into the sweet arms of his nap, Pippa stood. Or at least wobbled with conviction. Her tiny face lit up like a toaster oven. She babbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Adventure banana,” and stuck her spoon into the air like a sword forged from kitchen drawer chaos. She was in. They were whisked away (well, escorted at the pace of a sleep-deprived raccoon with a limp and a hose with no limbs) through the garden’s hidden glade—past the Judgmental Ferns, beneath the Great Swing of Yore, and into the Hollow of Whispering Worms. There, they were met by a grand circle of beasts who had sworn allegiance to the ancient laws of squish, slobber, and snack-sharing. They called themselves… The Secret Smooch Society. “You, Chosen One,” boomed a hamster in ceremonial feathers, “have passed the First Trial—The Unprovoked Kiss of Maximum Cheek Compression. Now you must complete the Second: The Test of Toy Sacrifice.” Pippa paused. Her face turned serious. She reached into her saggy diaper pouch (where most babies keep lint and secrets), and pulled out her most sacred treasure: the squeaky rubber duck named Colonel Nibbleton. Butterbean gasped. The raccoon wept. Even Gerald let out a low whistle that smelled faintly of mildew and prophecy. Without hesitation, Pippa plopped Colonel Nibbleton into the ceremonial puddle (which was, to be fair, just a birdbath the raccoon had peed in earlier). The Council nodded solemnly. “She is worthy,” intoned the rooster, who then did an uncalled-for dance move no one could explain. “Bring forth the Pacifier of Truth!” From the depths of the moss came a glowing object of pure baby legend: a pacifier so perfectly round, so ridiculously glittery, that even Pippa squinted with awe. Butterbean tried to eat it. Twice. He was gently but firmly sat on by a marmot named Linda until he stopped. The pacifier floated in mid-air. Gerald coiled himself into a ceremonial spiral. And then, as if pulled by the gravity of destiny (or possibly the smell of peanut butter from someone’s pants), Pippa reached up and popped the Pacifier of Truth into her mouth. The world blurred. Light twisted. Somewhere, a harmonica began playing itself. Pippa’s eyes widened with baby wisdom far beyond her eighteen and a half months. And then she said her first full sentence: “We are all just squishy miracles looking for a lap.” Silence. Reverence. Then someone farted. Probably the rooster. The Secret Smooch Society erupted into cheer. Toasts were made with acorn cider. The gnomes performed an interpretive dance involving finger puppets and interpretive sobbing. Pippa was crowned with a garland of daisy snacks. Butterbean peed on Gerald, who accepted the blessing in dignified silence. That night, under a sky smeared with stars and baby giggles, the Chosen Squish and her Jowly Guardian were honored in a ceremony involving three cupcakes, a tambourine, and something called “The Ceremony of the Holy Tummy Raspberry.” But trouble was brewing. In the shadows beyond the garden, behind the compost bin and beneath the swing set of broken dreams, a pair of glowing eyes blinked. A dark whisper carried on the breeze: “The Squish is rising... We must stop it before it softens the world.” And thus, the true battle for the future of squish had begun... Rise of the Anti-Squish The dawn broke slow and buttery over the garden, golden rays stretching like lazy kittens across the moss and dew-kissed petals. Pippa, still crowned with her floral garland and a single Cheerio stuck to her cheek, awoke in her royal highchair to find Butterbean at her feet, doing that dreamy sideways snore only bulldogs do when they've eaten too much pudding and have emotionally given up on gravity. The celebrations of the night before had ended in hiccups, several poorly timed nap-crashes, and one incident involving a cupcake, a sprinkler, and the concept of dignity. But today, there would be no parades. No interpretive dances by worm troupes. No recitations from the Chipmunk Bard Collective. No, today… they had a mission. A prophecy had been squealed. A threat had emerged. And it all started with a suspicious giggle echoing from the far side of the compost bin. Meet: Taffyta Von Smoogle. A rival baby influencer with 4.6 million followers on Totstagram, a personal stroller valet, and a jawline so sharp it had allegedly once sliced a teething ring in half. Taffyta wore designer overalls, metallic pacifiers, and sported a birthmark shaped like the Chanel logo. Her parents called her “a prodigy.” Her nanny called her “an emotional sugar bomb with legs.” Taffyta hated squish. “Squish is... common,” she sneered to her army of identically dressed ducklings—her so-called “Taffy Duck Force.” They were less ducks and more highly trained peeping operatives with tiny aviator glasses and questionable morals. “Real power,” she continued, adjusting her satin bib, “is in angles. Edges. Untouchable aesthetic. Not... slobber-based affection.” She had heard of Pippa’s coronation. She had heard of the ancient pacifier. And she knew: if this Squish Movement continued, there would be no space left in the influencer market for her brand of ice-cold, baby-couture chic. The world would be full of open arms and squishy bellies. There would be hugs. On camera. She shuddered. “Unforgivable.” Meanwhile, back at the Council, Pippa sat in deep consultation with Gerald, Butterbean, and Linda the marmot. The raccoon, suffering from a cider hangover and unresolved abandonment issues, had opted to nap under a rake. They were drawing up battle plans in crayon. The operation was to be named: Smooch Storm: Operation Lipplosion. “We strike at naptime,” said Linda, tapping a juice box for emphasis. “That’s when the ducklings’ focus drops. We’ll need distractions, decoys, and at least three banana peels.” Butterbean, wearing a colander helmet and a bib that read “Cheek First, Ask Questions Later,” nodded solemnly. Pippa narrowed her eyes, slapped mashed peas onto a parchment like a wax seal, and gurgled her official approval. As the sun reached its apex, the squad moved. They emerged from the tulips like legends—Pippa in full ceremonial footie pajamas, Butterbean in a stroller mounted with squeaky toys and snacks, and Gerald dragging an entire wheelbarrow of emotional support plushies. They marched to the Other Side—the uncharted land of Taffyta’s domain—past the forbidden sandbox, over the Bridge of Abandoned Sippy Cups, and through the Dunes of Forgotten Teething Toys. Taffyta met them at the center of the cul-de-sac, surrounded by her ducklings, arms crossed and face full of smug. “Well, well,” she smirked. “If it isn’t the Duchess of Drool and her furry sidekick. What’s the matter? Lost your blankie of justice?” Pippa didn’t flinch. She stepped forward. The air changed. The roses from the other garden leaned in. Even the sidewalk ants paused their buffet of fallen graham cracker to watch. Slowly, gracefully, powerfully… she opened her arms. “Huh?” said Taffyta. Pippa stepped closer. Eyes wide. Smiling. Soft. Her fingers spread like petals. Butterbean let out a proud fart of solidarity. “Hug?” Pippa asked. For a moment, Taffyta faltered. Her ducklings gasped. Gerald squeaked in anticipation. And the entire world held its breath. “You… you can’t just—” she sputtered. “You can’t hug your way out of—” But Pippa could. And she did. With the force of a thousand unspoken lullabies and the cozy warmth of a blanket straight from the dryer, she enveloped Taffyta in a squish so pure it nearly rewired the ducklings’ entire understanding of strategic philosophy. At first, Taffyta resisted. She puffed. She scowled. But then… her stiff baby limbs softened. Her lips trembled. Her face cracked. And out popped a hiccup so loud and heartfelt it triggered spontaneous emotional vulnerability in a passing goldfish. “It’s... nice,” she whispered. And just like that, the squish prevailed. In the days that followed, the two baby empires merged. Taffyta opened a line of limited edition cuddle cloaks. The ducklings became certified emotional support fluff. The pacifier was returned to its velvet-lined shrine beneath the hydrangeas. And Pippa and Butterbean resumed their sacred morning ritual, now with twice the audience, three extra cupcakes, and a deeply apologetic raccoon who was working on himself. The garden, once divided, now bloomed in full harmony. The Judgmental Ferns gave standing ovations. The gnomes wept openly. And every morning, the world paused for one blessed moment to witness the most powerful magic of all: A kiss, a squish, and the unspoken promise that love will always find the chubbiest cheeks. And thus, the Squish Squad reigned in peace. Until, of course, the arrival of the Sibling Horde. But that’s a story for another bottle of juice... Bring the Squish Home If the Squish Squad stole your heart (and let’s face it, they did), you can keep the magic going with cozy, cuddly, and display-worthy goodies from shop.unfocussed.com. Whether you're decorating a nursery, curling up for storytime, or just need a daily reminder that hugs > everything, we’ve got you covered: Wood Print – A rustic, ready-to-hang tribute to Pippa and Butterbean’s legendary smooch, perfect for warm-toned interiors and squish-friendly spaces. Throw Pillow – Hug it, squeeze it, nap on it. Butterbean would absolutely approve of this snuggle-ready accent. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in this soft masterpiece and channel the spirit of The Secret Smooch Society. Bonus: great for napping through duckling invasions. Framed Print – Elevate your wall game with a museum-quality print of this heartwarming scene, framed and fabulous for squish appreciation year-round. Explore the full collection and let a little bit of baby-and-bulldog joy into your home. Long live the Squish!
