Rosebud is not actually a baby.  She is four and a half.  But she is our baby and no baby has come along to usurp her illustrious sphere.  Should no baby ever come along, which is looking more and more likely with the passage of time, I guess she will be our baby for all eternity.  Imagine her wedding invitations:

Practicing Mammal and Sparky

are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter

Baby Rosebud

to some scoundrel who will never measure up

  
I can hardly wait.  Yawn.

Baby Rosebud always has something interesting to say.  Yesterday she asked me to fetch a plastic dinosaur she dropped from under the high stool upon which she was perched.  I commented, "It must be nice to have people do things for you all day long." 

After a pause for reflection, she responded in a comic deadpan.  "Actually," says Rosebud, "its boring."

Baby Rosebud suffers from neglect.  Clearly, being the seventh child of seven, youngest of nine in a family, she must constantly be overlooked.  Imagine how slighted she must feel.

Rosebud, can I read you a story?
Rosebud, give me a kiss.
Rosebud, can I help you get your jammies on?
Rosebud, do you want me to chase you?
Rosebud, do you want to help me bake cookies?  You can crack the eggs...

It’s criminal.