Not too long ago, Derek’s left taillight on his car bit the dust. We had opted to take his car instead of my gas-guzzling truck to Dallas for a day trip, but when we pulled onto the interstate and my cautious husband hit the blinker to merge, it was chiming at double the normal rate.
Even though I had driven the car last, I didn’t say anything. After all, the blinker wasn’t doing that when I drove it.
A few days later, he carted a tool box to his car and popped open the trunk. I hovered over his shoulder asking questions about what he was doing, but mostly I asked the same thing over and over: “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
I’m still learning the range of my husband’s skills. When we first moved into our place, I worried when Derek put together the bed frame, and I stood a good 10 feet away when he drilled in holes to install curtain rods.
It’s not that I don’t trust my sweet husband; I know he will provide and take care of our family. Besides, half of my extended family has promised to hold him to his vows.
But here’s the thing: I was used to taking care of those things on my own.
When I was in college, I once patched a hole in my bathroom— nevermind what the hole was from. Then, at my first apartment, I hung high things on my walls by standing on a chair, a fishing tackle box and a few books. Later, I fixed a leaky faucet in the place.
All by myself.
Sure, I called my dad sometimes, but the point is I got used to having to do those things without help. I’ll admit it’s great now to have the extra hand. Plus, I bet my dad was ready to pass the baton to Derek for all my little mishaps— like locking my keys in my truck (twice!).
For the record, the car blinker is working again and our curtains haven’t fallen down. And it’s really because of two things: 1. I held the screws while he worked. 2. Google. Honestly, though I think I helped the most.