Save for an isolated incident on the bus, when a bit of random babble sounded strikingly like a racial slur, my son’s first words have not yet given cause for concern. At 13 months, he has managed “mama”, “dada”, a bit of “gaga” and, once, “bus”. Mostly it’s just happy jabber, escalating to “EeeeeeeEEE!” at the sight of something extraordinary, like traffic lights or a lid.

What might have slightly frightened me would be if his first word had been his own name. Scarier still: if it was his only word, repeated over and over, usually spoken, sometimes sung, always with the understanding that this alone was sufficient explanation, justification and conversation. Me! Full stop. Me! Full stop. On repeat. For ever.

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Sound unlikely? Yes, except that such grandiosity is encouraged by the two main TV shows aimed at his age group. Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa or Po get their mouths round “Eh-oh”, “big hug”, and, from time to time, “custard”, but they are most comfortable reminding us which Teletubby they are. Their arrival every episode is heralded by all the fanfare and hierarchy of a Regency ball. Their leave-taking takes aeons.

The heroes of In the Night Garden, meanwhile, take nominative determination to another level. Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy and Makka Pakka say nothing but their own names, apart from a handful of rhymes in the special songs that introduce each of them every episode.

This self-absorption is reflected in their adventures. Upsy Daisy (“Upsy Daisy here I come / I’m the only upsy one / I’m the only daisy too / Ipsy, upsy, daisy doo”) is a vainglorious diva, always prancing uninvited front of the cameras and blowing kisses at the screen. Igglepiggle (“Yes, my name is Igglepiggle / Igglepiggle, niggle, wiggle, diggle / Yes, my name is Igglepiggle / Igglepiggle, wiggle, niggle, woo”) is a sweetie, but all id. The only character to exhibit anything approaching altruism is Makka Pakka (“Makka Pakka, akka wakka, mikka makka moo / Makka Pakka, appa yakka, ikka akka, ooo / Hum dum, agga pang, ing, ang, ooo / Makka Pakka, akka wakka, mikka makka moo”), a big lad who squeaks about on some sort of Zimmer trying to sponge people down. Kindness? Compulsion? It’s unclear.

Hammering home names is doubtless terrific for brand awareness. That I can reel off all eight of the Tiddlytubbies (baby versions, new this series, parentage murky) is testimony to the writers’ faith in repetition.

But I also wonder whether it’s unhelpful to school a generation quite so early that identity is paramount. Yes, everyone’s experience deserves to be heard widely, everyone’s insights – regardless of banality – matter; Twitter is popular for a reason. But the idea that mere reiteration of your existence will do the trick risks breeding conceit and, ultimately, disappointment.

When I was a tot, the preschool market was less energetically tapped by TV producers, but the perspective did feel more world-facing. Charlie, the cartoon sidekick from Words and Pictures, was far from a shrinking violet, but miles too excited by pencils to navel-gaze. Zippy, George and Bungle were largely deskbound in Rainbow, yet I can’t imagine the scorn had one of them hijacked proceedings to chant their own name.

Parenthood is a time when the mere presence of someone else can indeed seem miraculous. I can’t be the only one who, for a split second, occasionally forgets they’ve got a baby, then gets floored by floods of love on remembering. But the people behind these TV shows seem to have transferred an adult’s amazed adoration of their offspring to the children themselves. And though babies are entertained by their own face in a mirror, they tend not to get misty-eyed at the sight.

Quick guide Four pieces of kit to monitor children's screen time Show Hide Home Halo In combination with an app, this small box enables you to set limits on usage . Kids can also make requests to view particular sites, which you can block or allow . Also produces reports of web and app use. £4.95 a month Unglue This app enables you to monitor your children’s device use 24/7. It keeps track of their use of different apps and web traffic, and you can set a limit on the duration of – and designate a timetable for – “entertainment time”. Bark This service connects to 24 different platforms, including Snapchat and WhatsApp, and monitors your children’s texts, videos, emails and photos for signs of inappropriate content, bullying and depression. Circle by Disney A small box that connects to your router. In addition to setting and scheduling screen time, Circle allows you to put limits on apps and services, and to reward family members with bonus access when they’ve earned it.

Why the turn towards solipsism? It cannot be just love, lost in translation, or even an eye to the merchandising receipts. Perhaps it’s pandering to the wisdom that the young must be taught to see all that they are as worthy of attention and praise. A worry that anything less than blind adoration cracks open the door to self-loathing and neurosis. And, further, that when one grows up and gets a proper job, it’s important to be mindful of the self, to block out me-time in the diary, to be sure of your value, whatever your failings. Forget the rest. I am me. Again, again! Again, again, again!

It’s not only TV that coaches this. My son has a small collection of pocket-sized plastic toys, available in all good supermarkets, which emit various phrases at the touch of a button. There is a horse, who informs you it is a horse, a pig (“I’m a pig!”), who is keen on his curly tail, a self-identifying “fabulous fire engine” and a “super-fast jet”. Happily, none of these are especially gendered. But they are all raving narcissists.

Spend a few seconds with a hungry infant and you can be in no doubt of their self-interest. But their lack of filter means you can also be sure that, beyond basic needs, they have no particular desire to self-aggrandise. As, in fact, most babies’ first words demonstrate. “Mama”, “dada”, “dog”, “cat” – all are about clocking objects, then checking others have as well. Cheering, because it shows curiosity beyond our own skin is innate. My son loves the Teletubbies, and In the Night Garden, and his fire engine and his horse. He loves them, I think, for what they can do that he can’t – their scampering about and flashing lights – rather than how they reflect him. I, of course, love him for who he is. But I’d be worried if, in the future, that turned out to be all he was interested in too.

• Catherine Shoard is the Guardian’s film editor