My youngest daughter, B, is four. I’ve always called her “baby girl”, simply because she is the youngest of my three girls.

Sitting on my lap yesterday after she’d just got round mine, I gave her a cuddle and said “I love you, you’re my baby girl.”

But four years old seems to be an indignant age. “I’m not a baby!”

“Not a baby,” I explained, “but you ARE my baby girl.”

“No I’m not,” she said matter of factly, pausing slightly, “today I am Missy Moo Cat.”


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