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I guess it’s my fault.  It’s always the mother’s fault, right?

Allie will not recognize that her name, is in fact, as it appears on her birth certificate, Allie.  Just flat out refuses to even bat the idea around in her brain.

“And what’s your name?” someone will ask her in the grocery store.

“Baby,” she always responds.

To which I always, always, follow up mentally, “No one puts Baby in a corner.”

For three years now, I tell her on at least a daily basis that she is my “baby.”

“Are you Daddy’s baby?” She’ll shake her head no.  “Are you Nana’s baby?”  No again.  “Are you Papa’s baby?”  A nose scrunch and a definite shake of the head.  “Are you Mama’s baby?”  Her face will light up, she’ll nod in delight, and then fall into my chest to snuggle or give me a big squeeze.

I’m planting these things in her head now so when she achieves world domination, she’ll still hold her Dear Mother in high reverence.

But, as previously stated, all I seem to have done is cement the fact that her name is Baby.

This is something we’ve started working on now, so when she starts preschool next year, she won’t insist everyone calls her Baby, like she currently does at the house.

“Good job, Allie,” I’ll praise.

“I’m not Allie, I Baby!” As if I’ve just been delegated village idiot.

We must be making some sort of headway though I noticed last week at her second dance class.  Me and another Mom were sitting on the same couch, waiting for class to start, our ballerina’s snuggled up in our laps.

Allie waved at Ballerina #2 and said, “Hi!  I Baby Allie.”

Well, it’s a start.

Aren’t most three-year-olds insisting they’re “big girl’s”?  She’s walking that fine line where she wants everyone to call her Baby, but thinks skydiving is a perfectly acceptable hobby.  And she’ll start by practicing off the back of the couch.