What’s your name, Mummy?

A few days a go, Lord B shyly said to me, “mm, hh, Mummy, what’s your name?” He seemed somewhat ashamed of not knowing this, and of only just realising he didn’t. “Rosemary”, I said. “Hm, Rosie.” “No, Rosemary.” “Rosie.” “Yes, sure, Rosie.” (I hate being called Rosie.)

Then he said, “What’s Daddy’s name?” Well that’s a nice easy name to say. Bah.

We’ve had this going on a bit now – just randomly asking what our names are. He still can’t say my name. We ask him what other people’s names are, like Sir A. He calls him Poopie Puff. And pretty much every one else, too. Standard terminology for him when he either doesn’t know something and doesn’t want to let on, or has just tired of the conversation and wants to make it more interesting. It’s usually followed by delighted guffaws.

Sir A has learnt the word “funny”. He uses it when he’s bashing me over the head with a metal train instead of going to sleep and I inform him that it’s not on and time to sleep. “Hahaheehaw funny!” “No, Mumi, not funny, time to sleep.” “Gigglegiggle funny!” (Womanhandle him back to mimming position and he slowly drops off.) Also when he does loud farts. Well that’s hardly a surprise. Toilet humour will always be popular in our family, I’m afraid.

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