Munch, I love you beyond words. I suppose, not dissimilarly to all fathers, I believe I love you more than any parent has ever loved a child. Only in my case, it’s true… obviously. I honestly struggle to find the words to truly portray the depth of my emotion. You’re fantastic; an actual miracle.
Having said all that, if you had been my first born you would have undoubtedly enjoyed a full and wondrous life, as an only child!
Yes, you, are a devil. A delightful, joy-filled, mischievous little terror!
Your positive traits are endless. You’re smart, cute, pretty, perfectly proportioned (not chubby!) but you’ve resolved to use all your angelical attributes to serve the forces of darkness. You’re a miniature evil genius. Think: Lex Luther, The Joker, Thanos, Dr Evil. These unscrupulous characters all had their own sinful agendas. Your mission however, which you apparently chose to accept, is to emotionally torture your parents. Torture us until breaking point and then masterfully remind us how peachy perfect you really are. Ingenious.
For example, let’s take something simple like a lovely family walk on a nice summer’s day. A formally enjoyable activity filled with fond memories is now fraught with frustration and frayed patience. This is due to your speed and directional range for this wholesome activity. These include the following: sprint, stop, backwards or attempted suicide. You know where we want to go, you know the intended speed, you know what’s safe and what’s not… you just love to live in opposite world.
Nothing brings you more joy than fixing your parents with a ruefully knowing stare before bolting at a surprising top speed; more often than not in the direction of imminent danger whilst chuckling away with a heart stoppingly gorgeous giggle. I genuinely believe you’re ultimate villainous goal would be to achieve a wonderfully tragic murder suicide resulting in the untimely demise of the entire Mack and Bobal dynasty. You would presumably find that hilarious. Mission accomplished.
You also really enjoy drawing. Lovely. As kind, caring, nurturing parents we provide you with the tools to enjoy this newly acquired skill. Not so surprisingly, your favourite colour seems to be red and your canvas, the world. More specifically anything in the world that your parents have attached the word no to. To our bewilderment, you appear to have limitless supplies to feed your relentless passion for graffiti. Half the time, I’m not even mad, just impressed that you have the pen and mummy’s diary in your den that I removed and placed in a locked cabinet 2 minutes prior. How?! Because you’re diabolical is how!
No item is too high, no girl is too small! Yes, Paw Patrol is currently your favourite program. I’m certain that if you had your way, you’d be living in Foggy Bottom, supporting, correction, leading Mayor Humdinger. Ryder wouldn’t stand a bluddy chance.
In truth timing is everything. In your 22 months of life you have perfected the art of maximum damage in minimal time and now expertly implement intentionally impish schemes the moment we leave the room. There is literally zero lag time. We leave, you spring into action: eating coals out of the fake fire, removing batteries from anything that has batteries, drawing on the couch, sampling the Sudocreme, finding, stealing, undoing, unwrapping and eating anything in the kitchen. The best of which was an Easter egg that had been purposefully placed ‘out of reach’. Your repertoire also includes stealing the knobs from my Xbox controller and putting them in your dirty nappy and most notably pouring a glass of water into the potpourri for absolutely no reason what so ever. Then of course sticking us with a winning smile to smooth things over.
This leads me to believe you are always concocting naughty plots in your tiny little head and are simply a crazy coiled spring waiting for the opportune moment to strike with maximum impact. The best part is you have a stubbornness boarding on brilliance. You cannot be deterred and employ an unwavering, belligerent determination that I can’t help but admire. I hope you never lose that.
To be honest most of the time you simply appear to be hell bent on destruction for the sake of destruction. Destruction normally ensues after hearing us say the following, ‘No Munch, you can’t have more, your bowl is still full’. Queue baby rage and Olympic level food fight skills covering all corners of the compass in a 2-3 meter radius. Impressive. It evidently brings you boundless joy to sit and survey this carnage as you normally follow up with a hearty chuckle and continue to request more. I’d say given your current physical stature and epic throwing arm, it’s likely you’ll be a shot putter, a wicked shot putter, when you grow up.
Then we have your redeeming moments. The times that tie it all together and seal the deal on me loving you eternally. I was putting you to bed one evening. The usual routine completed and I’m now sat gently easing back and forwards in the rocking chair, lulling you into a deep happy sleep. With smooth deliberate motion you reach up with both hands, cup my face and stare deeply into my eyes, full of emotion. You hold this pose for what seems like an eternity. Then with lightning speed and pin point precision you shout ‘eye’ and spear my right pupil with a vicious chubby little finger. Eyes bloodshot and blurry, blinking to recover you sense your opening and thrust another ungodly finger directly up my nose and scratch, scratch hard. Blood begins to pour. Instinctively I attempt to defend myself, in vain. Sat in the dark, half blind, blood pouring from my nose and no spare hand to deflect incoming attacks, you plunge one sadistically snotty, devilish digit straight into my ear. Bravo baby, the perfect assault, I yield. Being the wise baby that you are, you realise the day is yours, you are victorious. Safe in this knowledge you reach up again, cup my face with both of your tiny hands, resuming said love filled stare(I’m obviously dubious at this point) and with the sweetest voice say ‘My Dada’, then snuggle into my chest with a soothing sigh. All is forgiven.
I’ll sign off with this. Some babies commit sinful acts for personal gain, a select few however, the special ones that will undoubtedly carve their own path through life, ‘just like to watch the world burn’. I’ll let you decide which you are.
I love you Munch. Forever and always.
Daddy
Mack and Bobal Waffle On 