AKA - Papa Don’t Let Mila Drive

I’m currently on route to London from Wales with Mila. Mila is crying her eyes out as I won’t let her drive our car down the M4.

“Sweetheart, Daddy needs to drive. You’re too little to drive.”

But Mila is having none of it. The iron toddler is not for turning.

“Milaaaaaa drive carrrrrrrr!” she wails.

“But even if you knew how to drive, and had somehow fluked your driving test, you couldn’t reach the peddles with those little legs of yours. Not even if I strapped some cans to your feet like that kid in Temple of Doom.”

“Milaaaaaaa driiiiiiiiveeeee caaaaaaaaaarrrrrr!”

Mila has been staying with family to enable Zsuzsa and I to attend a wedding in Dijon, France. Over the last four days I’ve spent around thirty two hours driving from London to Wales, from Wales to London, from London to Dijon, from Dijon to London, from London to Wales, and now from Wales back to London. I’ve basically spent almost a day and a half driving for the sake of a decent night’s sleep. And you know what? I’d do it all again tomorrow. In a heartbeat. Oh how I’ve miss you my old friend, Proper Nights Sleep. How I miss those lazy Sunday lie-ins together.

The wailing continues. Mila is taking the fact that I won’t buckle, and let her drive our car down the motorway personally. Selfish daddy.

I need a distraction.

“Should we listen to the radio?” I ask.

“NOOO! MILA DRIVE!”

I decide to take this as a ‘yes’ and turn the radio on. A tune begins to play and Mila stops wailing.

HUZZAH!

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?” asks Mila.

“Nearly darling. But this is actually ‘Lucky Star’ by Madonna.”

Wrong answer.

“Mila don’t like Madonna!” wails Mila, tears beginning to stream down her little face.

“Come on darling. Some of her later stuff isn’t great, and I don’t like her leotards, but some of her earlier stuff is pretty good. What about Papa Don’t Preach? You must like Papa Don’t Preach?”

“Don’t like it!” sobs Mila. “Don’t like Madonna!”

I sigh, turn the radio off, and with great sadness in my heart, I activate Code Red. Peppa Pig The Album.

“PIG!” squeals Mila.

“Yes.” I sigh. “Pig”.

The album begins to play, seamlessly moving from one cacophonous atrocity to the next.

“Daddy! Daddy! DADDY! LOOK!” bellows Mila.

I take my eyes off the road and point them at Mila for a moment. Her beaming face smiles back at me as she proudly shows off a Peppa Pig fuelled dance routine from the comfort of her child seat.

“Very good darling.” I reply and look back at the road.

“No daddy! No! Look!”

“I can’t darling. I’m driving.”

“DADDYYYYYYYY! LOOK!”

I spin around quickly.

“Yes darling. Lovely dancing.”

Back to the road.

“No daddy! Naughty daddy! Look daddy!”

“Daddy can’t look darling. Daddy’s driving.”

A pause.

“MILAAAAAAA DRIIIIIIIVE!”

The wailing is back. I glance at the map. Only another one hundred and fifty miles to go.