Oh my sweet husband. Or poor husband, whichever.
I told this gentle man recently, “I will never be without a project. There’ll always be something else to do. Something.”
I get the sense he’d prefer a break, even just a couple of days, without my ever-pressing agendas. I mean there’s already so much with mere everyday life — children to feed, garden to weed, mail to read — without me adding repainting the kitchen, growing a you-pick strawberry patch or planning our oldest son’s teenage years and our daughters’ weddings.
Please don’t get it wrong: My husband is a hard worker. Without fail, he leaves home to work some 45-plus hours a week in what we call the saw mill. Add that to the fact he has become the primary “homemaker” while I’ve been in nursing school, and no one would dare call him lazy.
I say it every time someone asks me how I do it all: “I don’t. My husband does.”
But he does tend to be more content than me, fine with settling into something that works rather than always seeking a new project to tackle.
Frankly, I once found that boring — until I read a great, the-feminists-would-hate-it-book with the word “helpmeet” in the title that spoke to me: Don’t be an idiot and complain about a steady, hard-working, reliable husband. The dreamers and drifters yield far greater troubles than the “boring” ones.
But me? Yeah. I always want to push for bigger, faster, different. Nothing is ever, not really, good enough, and every accomplishment begets another project. I have a hardy appetite whetted by a process or program to develop, a need to meet, a resource to discover or a puzzle to unravel or figure out.