Hey man, it’s dead already.

Just eat the thing already Anne Marie.


There’s no need to kill it again, it died a while ago. So eat or don’t, but stop playing with your food.


What did you say?!?

I said NO!

Such are the dinner conversations with my two year old these days. Hard to tell from that exchange but I’m pretty sure I’m losing. The big problem is she thinks I’m deaf. So when she gives me the “I said no” routine she says it with the attitude of, look donny deaf boy I’m getting tired of repeating myself. That’s no joke. The slant in her voice is clear and obvious.

She has no fear.

She has no fear.

With Frank all I had to do was look like I was about to stand up and he would recant, confess, and beg forgiveness. Anne Marie just doesn’t defy me, she flat out dares me to come over there. It’s as if she likes her chances against me. How old, broken down, and feeble must I look in her eyes for her to adopt that attitude?

Of course her tune does change once I get to where she is. The shocked look on her face the first time she realized she was no longer hypo-sensative to pain and could now feel getting spanked made me turn my head to keep her from seeing me laugh. Ah small victories. Didn’t last long though, once the shock wore off she was right back to finding a new angle. Always thinking, always thinking. Still, it hasn’t changed her pig headed ways. Maybe dulled them a bit. She is really in her terrible two’s, hopefully climbing out of it.

The one area she will not relent is in the dismantling, dismembering, and destruction of her food before she eats it. And it drives me up a wall. For whatever reason, playing with food is the one sin I can not overlook or handle with any degree of sanity. It was programmed into me at some point, but I don’t remember it being such a big life lesson. It just was a thing I remember hearing, “Don’t play with your food.” But Anne Marie is not really playing with it as it turns out. It’s like she’s killing it so she can eat it.

Now I’m no sociologist, or whatever ologist would be responsible for studying the hunting, killing, and eating habits of the indigenous two year old, but it seems to me like our indigenous two year old is working for her supper. It’s the only thing I can figure.

Give her a slice of pizza and she’ll tear the heart out of it, literally ripping the center from it before eating it. Hand her a slice of toast and she’ll stab it with her fork, hold it up, utter some unknown language, and then laugh like she’s putting the head of her mortal enemy on a pike for all to see. Frank laughs with her like he understands what she’s saying, but he doesn’t. He’s just playing along casue he’s afraid he’s next. And my favorite, give her a PB&J she keeps begging me for and she pulls it apart, pokes 8 to 10 holes in each piece before spiking the jelly slice to the floor, business end down of course, and mauling the peanut butter side. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE PEANUT BUTTER!

All I get from her by way of explanation is, “Oh man, not again!”

The signs were there...

The signs were there…

I blame myself of course. I should have seen this coming, should have been prepared. I didn’t, I wasn’t. How could I have missed it. The signs were there.

<———-Who does that to beef and mushroom? That is an 18 month old with the taste for blood and the look of the devil. Tell me she’s not plotting something. This picture is the reason I haven’t taught her to use a knife yet.

Well she’s almost 3 now and learning to use scissors in pre-school, the proper way, not to pry open the fridge with or perform an appendectomy on her closest neighbor.

<———-But still.







This entry was posted in Diaries.

3 comments on “Hey man, it’s dead already.

  1. JETSR says:

    very cute post; love the pic of AM in the highchair!

  2. Lisa Edwards says:

    Ha! Love it! My daughter doesn’t really like peanut butter either I have to make cream cheese and jelly for her!

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