Prince Diego VOXX Magazine December 2016

Prince Diego

Nothing is mine. Not even down to the last piece of toast on my plate. I'm hungry. I'm losing weight.

I'm deprived of food, drink... sometimes even my hairbrush. I am not even sure if it’s okay to live like this anymore. I have considered my options. I am really beginning to believe that this is parent cruelty.

It dawned on me last weekend. I began my morning as I begin all mornings, to the sound of my name being summoned, over and over again. Sometimes it pops into my dream as elephants come charging toward me. Chanting. Mummy. Mummy. I don't have another name anymore.

I rush, panic stricken to my son to check on his wellbeing. My heart is banging around in another room, calling me. There he stands, a king pointing at the curtains. "Open. Open". He yells. I reassure him that “of course I will my darling.” How could he assume anything other? Then I will dress him, bath him and serve him breakfast in a golden bowl. WITHOUT CRUSTS.

There's one thing that I'd like back. My spoon. No matter how subtly I eat, I am in trouble if I don't swap my spoon with his. He shouts at me. He screams, and sometimes he throws his dinner on the floor.

In all honesty, privately I can handle the shame, but in public I feel rather badly treated when I'm eating from plastic cutlery.

Diego is two. He likes to tell the whole world about it. He knows exactly what he wants. If my beautiful prince could say everything, he would defiantly address me as "slave.” For now "mummy" is the easiest option.

If you have faced the terrible twos, or know somebody that has, feel free to contact me with survival stories.

Boneata Bell


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