He can listen to every sad story his patients tell him with kindness and empathy, give a near painless shot and never, I mean never, miss a stick when he draws blood, but then he comes home and builds a me a deck and bosses me around like a farm hand.
I love that he stops and looks at it then starts working again and tells me what he’s doing as if I have the foggiest idea about any of it. I don’t have a clue about 1/8 inch cuts or saws-all or whatever the heck he explains to me but I listen and nod and hold the board where he says to and close my eyes when he shoots the nail gun. I say “Honey be careful” and that makes him mad but he just growls ” Steph….” which means don’t tell him to be careful any more.
I love it that pretty much anything I ask him to build me he can and eventually does. I love it that he knows how to fix my dryer or make me a table. I love it that one day he will build me a little cabin in the mountains when we retire. And maybe if I have my way he will build me a little clinic in Africa where we will take care of little sick babies and their mamas. I love it that he is going to build my grandbaby the best playhouse there ever was, just like he did her mama when she was his little girl. I love it that he loves to watch “Tiny House Nation” and yells “You idiot” to all the people wrecking their houses on Renovation Reality.
A handy-man is a nice man to marry. It’s even better to grow old with a handy-man. He can build all your dreams into realities. You young girls listen up……always pick the man with the tool belt.