Married to a Man-Child (But I am Not Saying That…)

Now, I am not saying that my husband is basically an additional child in our family.
I am not saying he always has to be the centre of attention.
I am not saying he is needy.
And I am definitely not saying he is a hypochondriac…

…but I am not not saying it either.

You see, in our house, there is a very interesting pattern.
If my back hurts, suddenly—his back hurts.

If his back hurts?
Well. Apparently, no one in the history of humanity has ever experienced such agony. Not even me… and I gave birth to our eldest without pain relief. But who is keeping score?

And do not even get me started on presents.
Whenever we are buying someone a birthday or Christmas gift, he has this magical ability to suggest something that—pure coincidence, I am sure—he also desperately needs. Funny, that.

We have been married for many years now, and honestly, it is just part of the furniture. The kids have grown up with it and, if anything, they have made it worse indulging him with surprise birthday parties, meals out, and even premium hospitality football tickets.

Yes. You read that right.
He really is one spoiled bugger.

But every so often, there comes a moment where I think:
Surely… surely this is where he draws the line.

Reader, he does not.

Let me take you back to the incident.

For years, I had the contraceptive implant—one of those little rods inserted into your arm that stays there for three years before it is replaced or removed. After I was sterilised, I went to have my final one taken out.

Now, I am not great with medical things. Bit squeamish. So, naturally, my husband came along “for support.”

Lovely, right?

So, there I am, lying on the bed in the doctor’s office, trying not to look as he is snipping away at my skin, while I mentally disconnect from my arm altogether…

…and out of nowhere, my husband casually pipes up:

“While we’re here, doctor, could you just take a look at this skin tag that’s been bothering me?”

I froze.

I tried to catch his eye—the look. You know the one.
The look that says: This is not the time. This is not the place. Stop talking immediately.

But no. Oblivious as ever, he carried on merrily mithering the doctor about his skin tag, as if we were all just having a relaxed catch-up over coffee.

Meanwhile, I am lying there, mid-procedure, thinking:
Is this really happening?

The doctor finishes my arm, wraps it all up nicely, and I think—great, we can leave now, crisis averted.

Oh no.

Instead, he turns to my husband and says, “Come into the next room.”

And just like that—OFF comes the skin tag.

No waiting days.
No booking another appointment.
No navigating the minefield of receptionists guarding the diary like it is Fort Knox.

Nope.
Straight in. Job done. VIP treatment.

My husband walked out of there absolutely beaming. Proud as punch with himself, like he had just achieved something remarkable.

And me?

Well… let us just say it is a miracle he made it home in one piece.

But that is just him, isn’t it?
Completely unaware, slightly ridiculous, and somehow always managing to turn any situation back to himself.

And, if I am being honest…

That is also what makes our marriage as funny as it is.