Ella has gone through more nick-names in her four and a bit years than nappies. Well, okay, that’s a complete and utter exaggeration – there is absolutely no WAY anybody’s taking the martydrom factor associated with bum-changing away from me – but you get the idea.
Nicknames we’ve rotated over the years for her include:
– Rabbie (as in, short for Rabbit) – Schnook – Mouse/mauschen/other variations on the ‘mouse’ theme – Cutie – Lunatic – Poo-meister – Low Sugar Pepsi
(By the way, that last one’s made up. Just checking you were actually reading.)
The thing is, I love nicknames. I’ve always used them. I’ve always had them used on me. I’ve always seen them as a positive thing – a special way to bond, if you will. For what can be more loving than looking into that tender little muffin’s eyes and saying “Pass the baby wipes my little love poodlet of choco-nuggetness”?
But now that’s all to change – Ella is henceforth enforcing a ‘no nicknames’ rule, the only exception withstanding being “puppet” (the fact that I’ve never even called her ‘puppet’ in her entire life seems to be lost on her).
I will respect her wishes. But when her back is turned, when she is helpless on the monkey bars, when she is fast asleep all tucked up in bed…there’s gonna be some heavy duty nickname whispering going on from my end. After all I’ve done, I feel it’s the least I’m entitled to: my own little personal rebellion.
Puppet.