Life with Ludacris

I was pondering the so-called ‘terrible twos’ as my Darling Daughter had tantrum #34 about what colour tights to wear and thought: what has really happened – without me being aware that she had secured a record deal or anything – is that my daughter has turned into a hip-hop artist.

Bear with me.

I don’t mean that she is cruising the hood in a tricked out people carrier looking for other nurseries to drive-by whilst listening to her East Coast, selecta playlist on her Alpine, yo.

It’s just that she is all talk and no action – all mouth and no trousers…or (my favourite from the U.S.) all hat and no cattle. She talks a good game, but when it comes down to actually doing the stuff she promises to do. Well, it’s all hype, innit? It’s just posturing.

For example, mealtimes with Darling Daughter are (90% of the time) a total, bloody nightmare. I have to cajole, persuade, bribe, threaten, trick and sneak food into her mouth or she will waste away and social services (or the Swiss equivalent  – whatever the hell that is) will be round our appartment faster than you can say ‘Annabel Karmel‘s kids eat this, why don’t you?’

Mrshev: Okay, lunch is ready!

Darling Son: Great, meatballs and noodles [licks lips in an exaggerated and slightly disconcerting way] my favourite!

Darling Daughter: Yeay! [looks at fork suspiciously] I want a pink fork.

MrShev: Okay. [thinks: is is really – really, really – going to make that much difference to the taste if the fork is pink? You don’t watch Gordon Ramsey saying: ‘well, this fucking calf’s liver, drizzled in truffle fucking oil and sherry bloody reduction is not fucking working for me. Ah yes, a pink fucking plate, that’ll make all the bloody difference…’ FFS]

DD: I am going to eat it all up! [licks lips in an exaggerated and slightly disconcerting way] I am going to get the biggest fork of noodles and I am going to eat it right up!

MrShev: Go on then, eat up.

DD: [touched nothing on her plate. Now starts waving fork around for emphasis] I am going to eat everything on my plate and it’s all going to go in my big, fat tummy!

MrShev: Alright then, start eating then…

DD: Yum. I am going to eat every…little…bit – I am going to eat all of it…

MrShev: Okay, then. Get cracking, we haven’t got all day…

DD: …then I am going to eat all the sausages, all the tomatoes and all the apples…

MrShev: Well, let’s just start with the meatballs, eh? Do you want me to help you?

DD: No, I can do it! Then – then! – I am going to eat all the strawberrys and a big bowl of pasta and a potato…

MrShev: Here, have a mouthful of spaghetti…

DD: I am going to suck up that spaghetti – so fast – so fast, like this [gets out of chair and runs around the table singing: ‘yeahhh!’] and it will go straight into my tummy.

MrShev: Here you go then, open wide [she opens it, but then snaps it shut again as she thinks of something else to prophesise about]

DD: Then [she starts wagging her finger – oh, oh…she’s going into full-on rant mode…] I going to eat every meatball. I am going to eat four…no…six…no…ten and forty, one hundred meatballs all in my big, fat tummy. Oh yes…hmmm…in my…big…FAT…TUMMY!

MrShev: That’s great, but let’s put some action behind the words, shall we?

So, she has just turned into P-Diddy. Hopefully it will only be temporary.

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10 thoughts on “Life with Ludacris

  1. “All hat and no cattle” – love it.

    It could be worse. Our 3-year old son wants everything in pink, loves walking around in mummy’s heels and thinks he is a cross between Rihanna and Lady Gaga. He half woke up from sleep during the middle of the night over the weekend, sang a couple of bars of “Born This Way”, and went straight back to sleep again. Well, it makes a change from “Only Girl In the World”, I suppose …

    1. I think every kid goes through that. I know our son did. Now he is just in that ‘must punch everything’ phase – which is a bit tiring to be honest.

    1. I love the expression ‘All fur coat and no knickers’ – makes me laugh every time I hear it. My Father in law is a big fan of the phrase…

  2. ah, all planning and no doing, all organizing and no actual getting shit done. A girl after my own heart – a mini soul-sister, if you will.
    Shhhh, you. Don’t you understand what a brilliant tactic this is? She is preparing herself for when she is older and needs to watch her calories, and has developed a strategy of distracting herself from food by talking and fantasizing about other stuff. Bloody brilliant, I tell you. The artistry! Boys will never understand 😉

  3. Aah, the terrible twos. Which often extend into the terrifying threes and begin with the ominous ones. My two-year-old is harder work than his three siblings put together. He has worked out terrible ways to get what he wants. The most effective, which admittedly isn’t v. P Diddy, is to scream at such an intense volume, and for so long, that he is physically sick. Which does mean, to my shame, that I often give in and let him eat his food on the floor/drink from the blue cup/turn off the radio, or whatever other fool thing he has got it into his head to scream about. And this scream isn’t just any scream. Its level is pitched somewhere between a jet taking off and a drill cutting through metal, and brings neighbours running (in both directions, it must be added). We should chuck the world’s two-year-olds in the direction of people like Gadaffi. After no more than a morning they’d be desperate to take over a nice garden centre.

    1. My daughter definitely perfected the jet engine battle cry early on and still employs it if she feels the need to get something quickly.

      I agree that using small children as instruments of torture is an inspired idea. The ability to ask why 400 times in a row must be the mark of an expert interrogator.

  4. Ah, shite. This food avoidance isn’t a phase then? Dinner in our household used to be wolfed down till Girl came along. It is now pondered over. I am developing a kind of repetitive strain injury from holding an outstretched and immobile plastic fork towards disinterested lips.
    And yes, it’s pink.

    No posturing as yet, but she only knows ten words, so doubtless it’ll come with an increased vocab. Hooray.

    1. The RSI remark made me laugh really hard. I am still doing it. I am worried that I will only be able to utter the phrase ‘just one more mouthful!’ like some kind of deranged monk and begin rocking backwards and forwards.

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