Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/MackandBobal
Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/MackandBobal
Those of you who know Bobal would probably agree that she is very, very intelligent. 11 GCSE’s (10 A grade or higher), 5 A levels at college, a degree and fully qualified as a solicitor. Suffice to say detailing my equivalent qualifications wouldn’t use quite so many characters. Finished high school… just. That’s it.
Her brain works at a level and speed that I can’t even begin to understand. More to the point I don’t think I would want to. I enjoy living in my oblivious bubble of stupidity far too much. With her detective like attention to detail and occasionally seemingly supernatural level of intuition; she really is one of, if not the smartest, person I know.
However, book smart and street smart are two completely different things. Being well read and common sense are undoubtedly at opposing ends of the intelligence spectrum. And evidently the senses of a common variety were being strictly rationed on the day of her glorious creation.
To give you a flavour of what I mean I would like to bring your attention to her geography skills. North, south, east and west seem to disorientate my wifey with a comical ease. We live slap bang in the middle of England yet Bobal still to this day will go up south to Scotland or down north to London?!?
Even whilst walking (be it in the city or countryside) she can become hilariously disorientated. When faced with 50/50 left or right directional decisions, she will impressively choose the wrong way 99% of the time. Even out of sheer dumb luck she should get it right more often. She defies logic and basic odds. It’s clear to me that her internal compass yearns for serious and extensive re-calibration however this is just the beginning.
The amazing depths of Bobal’s common sense deficit becomes most apparent with the attempted application of any and all sayings. Pearls of wisdom like ‘slept like a light’ and ‘out like a log’ will regularly escape her lips.
A couple other prime examples are ‘ as the bird crows’, aka ‘ as the crow flies’, ‘it’s a recipe waiting to happen’, this should be ‘a recipe for disaster’ or ‘a disaster waiting to happen’. I do love that combo.
Even more hilarious is when Bobal outright concocts her own words and or names for things. ‘Ball ball’ for ‘bauble’ and ‘counch’ for ‘couch’, where does the N come from?
The most entertaining part for me is the strength of her resolve when arguing her point. Adamantly telling me it’s a ‘landpost’ not a ‘lamppost’! And in truth it takes nothing short of a promethean effort on my part to convince her other wise as she always has a very logical argument to prove her illogical view. ‘It’s a landpost because it’s a post that’s in the land’. Who am I to argue with that?
To top it all off she blames all of the above on her mother. Her mother who actually gets all these sayings correct, calls a couch a couch and a lamppost a lamppost. Can someone please explain this to me?
It’s because of these idiosyncrasies that Bobal and I work so well as a couple, as we get to laugh our way through life. It still makes me laugh every time she utters one of her Bobal-isms. As Bobal says, a bird in the hand does you good.
Since Bobal is breastfeeding, Mush is basically ‘on boob’ 24/7 and cannot leave her Mummy’s side. This can become quite frustrating for both of us as I can’t take Mush away from Bobal for any length of time and Bobal can’t get that much needed alone time.
We have recently begun expressing to allow us both the flexibility we desire. I say ‘we’ because although Bobal has the glorious milk makers; I’m an organized genious making sure the expressing happens (Bobal probably has another story).
Regardless, the goal was clear: express enough milk so that Bobal could be apart from Mush for a while and I could get some quality alone daddy-daughter time. This could potentially be quite a stressful time for even the most level headed of couples. I was a little apprehensive, would I be ok on my own, will Mush be ok away from Boob (I mean Mummy of course) and would Mush take the bottle or decide that today was the day she didn’t like it? Even with all these questions running around I was confident I would be fine. And in short I was completely fine, it’s as if I’m her Dad. Bobal however didn’t do so great.
Bobal was booked in to get her hair coloured by my sister (a hairdresser). I thought this would be a nice trial excursion. It would give Bobal a brief interlude from our gorgeous milk monster, allow her to get pampered a little and generally just have some good ‘me time’. However I thought wrong! Here’s why.
The Day before.
This day was filled with apprehension and furious planning for the *sarcastic tone* ‘4 hours away from Mush’. Would Mack be ok on his own, will Mush still remember who Mummy is with a fancy new hair colour? I was beginning to think my wife had been beamed away and replaced by a new crazy version of herself. She frantically packed and re-packed the changing bag, sterilised bottles and chose outfits ready for my ‘epic adventure’ to baby clinic. There was a lot to do… apparently. Unbeknownst to me this was just the tip of the emotional iceberg, the start of the rollercoaster ride of anxiety.
Bobal wakes up and the first words out of her mouth are ‘I don’t think I can go today’. Yes it’s official, Bobal has taken the final step and crossed the border into crazy town. She was so adorably stressed in the most endearingly, cute way. She flipped back and forth countless times, ‘I’m going’, ‘I’m not going’, ‘I can go’, ‘I can’t go’. I was obviously super supportive and told her that she was bat shit crazy and to calm down to which she blurted out ‘no one in this this family loves me as much as I love them!’ This made us both chuckle as she knew how ridiculous she was being.
Eventually however we got ready and ventured into the big wide world completing the arduous 10 minute car journey to the salon. There was a tearful (from Bobal) albeit quick good bye as we were sat at traffic lights expecting them to change any second. This rushed handover exacerbated the situation making things all the more stressful for my emotional wifey. Personally I thought I was free and clear from this point… again I was wrong.
I received the sum total of 6 Whatsapp messages, 3 text messages and 2 missed phone calls all requesting updates and pictures (as if she needed photographic proof of our daughter’s well being). The funny thing is the more pictures I took and sent, the more texts I replied to; the less I was actually looking after our daughter! Then strikes a catastrophe; Bobal’s phone died (indicative of over use?!?!). So she then got my sister to text me.
Contrary to popular belief Mush and I went to baby clinic, I got her weighed and then we went home and napped… full stop. In Bobal’s head however, there was a legitimate chance that, to quote Ross from Friends ‘a pigeon, a pigeon. No, no wait, no, no, an eagle flew in. Landed on the stove and caught fire. The baby, seeing this, jumps across the apartment to the mighty bird’s aid. The eagle, however, misconstrues it as an act of aggression and grabs the baby in its talons. Meanwhile the faucet fills the apartment with water. Baby and bird still ablaze are locked in a death grip, swirling around in the whirlpool that fills the apartment.’
The lovely thing is, is that I know none of this worry is directed towards me. Bobal has complete confidence in me as a parent as I do with her. What I was dealing with was a fairly decent case of separation anxiety.
Upon being reunited Bobal immediately leaked both from her eyes and boobs and grabbed Mush to smell her head and squish her thighs. Then began 20 minutes of sadness as my sister got more smiles from Mush than Mummy thus confirming Bobal’s worst fears. Mush had forgotten who her mummy was completely, she could no longer recognise her with new red hair and had already phoned the adoption agency and lined up 3 new prospective mummies (she is very advanced).
10 minutes later
Bobal congratulates herself on not getting too stressed and dealing with the separation admirably!
I then begin to wonder when the ceremony will be, the ceremony to crown Bobal queen of crazy town… congratulations can I have a divorce now please?
I feel like I have a reasonable understanding of what love is. I love my wife, my work, family, pets, food and chocolate! I do what I can to focus on the positive, avoid the negative and surround myself with the things I love.
Equal top of that list, with Bobal, is Mush. I loved my daughter from the moment she entered this world and I can’t imagine my life without either of them. However none of that compares to Mush’s greatest love. Her greatest love isn’t Mummy or Daddy, boob or weeing on daddy at 3am (although this act did induce her first smile). Her greatest love is her… LETTERS!
She loves them hard. Her love for these letters is a love I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, it’s the kind of emotion most people dream of having but have no chance in hell of attaining.
If she is crying, take her to her letters. If she is tired, take her to her letters. If she needs changing, feeding or burping, take her to her letters.
They never fail to put a smile on her face. You’re probably thinking why don’t I just feed and change my baby (bad parent)? I normally do, I just wanted to test the theory.
Wouldn’t it be great to see the world through a child’s eyes just for one day, I think we would all appreciate the little things more in life if we did.
For any parents out there wanting to test the letter theory we got ours from Amazon at:
As a business development manager, I do my fair share of driving and I like to think I’m a fairly competent driver.
With this in mind I would like to educate drivers everywhere with my understanding of a couple of key aspects of driving. Call it a public service if you will.
1. Motorway Driving
This can be especially scary for your average driver. Hurtling along at speeds in excess off 70mph in a poorly piloted metal box. If I were you I would be terrified! The experience may potentially be less daunting if you knew how to use the lanes properly.
The left hand lane is for driving, centre and right lanes are for overtaking only. You do not have slow, medium and fast lanes. If you are not gaining ground or making progress on the car in front, move the f**k over! I obviously meant ‘fork’ yes fork, put the fork down stop eating your pasta salad as you obviously aren’t concentrating on driving and move the f**k over. I will let you use your imagination for that one. Don’t even get me started on middle lane drivers.
Indicators are the elusive storks on either the left or right hand side of your steering column.
The purpose of your indicators are to ‘indicate’ your manoeuvring intentions to other road users.
When the rusty cogs in your head grind into life and ask you to turn left into Asda’s car park, here is what you do. Check your mirrors to ensure the way is clear, signal your intentions by turning your indicators on then finally execute the manoeuvre. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre.
However here comes the crux of the issue. It would appear that these ninja sticks, Masters of hide and seek or invisible super heroes elude capture on a daily basis as 90% off drivers seem unable to use them.
Find them and use them please or I may be tempted to call you and give you a Liam Neeson-esque speech from Taken.
I’m not going to lie, pregnancy was not an easy time for me! It was obviously harder for Bobal who was actually pregnant but let’s be honest, there are enough books giving advice for women out there already.
What I found or did not find as the case may be, is anything advising a man on how to survive this wonderfully, terrifying time.
With this in mind I feel duty bound to assist men everywhere and this is my fool proof, step by step guide to surviving pregnancy:
Step one: dig hole.
Step two: get in hole.
Step three: stay in hole for 9 months.
Step four: climb out hole.
Step five: meet your new baby.
Admittedly I haven’t got all the details worked out and you may have a few relationship issues now but… you will have survived.
P.S I plan to do a serious version of this post in the not too distant future… not that this isn’t gold standard advice but I think I can do better.
Mush is now 11 weeks old and amazes me more and more each day. There is however one thing that I have found especially illuminating. In fact, I have quickly progressed through a range of emotions regarding a certain thing she excels in. I find it hilarious, disgusting, unending, embarrassing and sometimes just downright impressive!
What am I talking about? My child’s extreme farting abilities! I am not the only one with mixed emotions towards this competition standard flatulence (if there is such a competition, she would win hands down). Mush herself can be sad about the wind, outright angry, find it hilarious, confusing and much to her parents delight; has been shocked by it on more than one occasion!
The tuneful delights of my daughter’s bottom become most inconvenient when out in public. She can reach such decibels that the every day Joe Public cannot and will not believe it was her.
In an effort to combat the embarrassment (for me personally) I have teamed up with said baby. This is what we do:
Step 1: Mush breaks wind.
Step 2: I accept responsibility for aforementioned wind in a very loud and obnoxious way.
Step 3: I vigorously waft a certain part of my anatomy.
Step 4: Bobal digs a hole, climbs in and attempts to die of shame.
Step 1: Mush breaks wind.
Step 2: I hold my nose, look disgusted and point at Bobal.
Step 3: I pick up baby and quickly vacate the area glancing over my shoulder at Bobal with a disgusted expression.
Step 4: Bobal attempts to defend herself, all the while looking more and more guilty.
Step 5: See Step 4 of Game 1.
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My wife (Bobal) has always wanted to write a blog. I have always supported this idea as I’m devote in the belief that she would be very interesting to listen too.
I love my wife but she sometimes has a far from normal sense of humour, a distinct lack of common sense, can be incredibly opinionated and some may say loves our two cats (Doh Doh and Goofy) far too much! As long as Bobal hasn’t read that and I survive long enough to write this next bit, I would also say she is extraordinarily intelligent (it’s scary sometimes), very creative, kind, selfless, funny, interesting and generally beautiful inside and out.
On the flip side of that personally, I have never had much of an interest in blogging due to my general lack of intelligence and far from adept grasp of grammar and the English language. I knew however if I showed an interest in starting a blog that Bobal would also want to follow suit.
My motivations to enter the blogosphere are not all together selfless though, I of course have my own agenda. I would like a platform to improve my writing skills and a medium to put down on paper my (mostly) random thoughts. I hope to find the experience quite therapeutic, but who knows?!?
I actually became inspired to start blogging the morning after an argument with Bobal whilst I was driving to work.
Initially I thought that I could perhaps impart some wisdom regarding relationships, don’t ask my why! However this then spawned a myriad of different topics I thought I may like to write about however thoroughly uninteresting they may be. With this in mind you will see me write about my take on motorway drivers and road rage, tips on weight training and relationship advice; from the importance of arguing to how to communicate effectively. For good measure I will also throw in a dash of fun anecdotes from day to day life as a parent – from the dad’s perspective plus much more I’m sure.
I can’t imagine that many people will be interested in what I have to write but regardless I look forward to writing it.