My beautiful little girl is 9 months old today. She has four teeth and more names than most.
On the Isle of Wight she is 'IS-obel-not-tinkerabell' or 'Issy G'; Granny in SA refers to her as 'Missypoo'. At the height of her regurgitation a Godfather referred to her as 'Chundercat' - less said about that the better I think.
Nursery call her 'Miss Isobel' or 'Musical genius' apparently.
To her darling Daddy she has been all sorts from 'Chunky-Chip'; 'Half-pint'; 'Munchkin' to 'Little Mischief'.
Me, I'm probably guiltiest of all for calling her names: at 5 am she is 'PLEEEEASE-go-to-sleep-Isobel'; on a grumpy day she may be 'Weeny' which is short for 'weeny-whiny'; 'Babalicious' long for baba; 'Ickle-pickle', not to be confused with Igglepiggle.
Or quite simply 'My-beautiful-Angel-Baby-who-I-love-more-than-anything-in-the-whole-wide world'.
No comments:
Post a Comment