The communicatory neurosis of treating someone you love as akin to a pet.

For Vladimar Nabokov (Lolita et al) his wife Véra was his joy, his life, his music, his love. She was also his kittykin, his poochums, his mousikins, goosikins, monkeykins, sparrowling, kidlet—since he was not keeping a list he feared he might be repeating himself (he was); he worried he would run out of critters (he did not)—his skunky, his bird of paradise, his mothling, kitty-cat, roosterkin, mousie, tigercubkin,

The problem here was that the quotidian (daily) nature of these endearments were rather asphyxiated by repetition.

Endearments of this nature (although all to human and very sweet) when reiterated become murky -  like windshield wipers hauling snow in one direction to smear slush in the other more illuminating, they become messy biopsies rather clear  CAT scans.

Source New York Review of Books