Except for the plan bit, that is.

My husband, God love him, is a man.   By which I mean not only will he not stop to ask for directions, he seems to believe that the mere existence of anything like directions is an insult to his manhood.  Like the time we were leaving for our third date, heading from my neighborhood (which was not his neighborhood, or anywhere he’d ever spent any time) to go for coffee.  We were traveling through an area with a lot of road construction going on, and I suggested he might want to go ahead and get right to get to the appropriate freeway.   He laughed his charming, manly laugh and said something to the effect of being the rare man who will ask for directions if he needs them.  Unfortunately for him, he said this as he pulled onto the wrong freeway, going in the opposite direction of where we were heading.  Poor guy, he’s never going to live that down.

Then again, I’m the girl who knew this about him, and married him anyway.  And despite the fact that I’ve known his uber aversion to directions, plans, etc, I still somehow think that he’ll change.  With every new project, a tiny voice in my head says, “This time, things will be different.” They never are.

Two weeks ago, we bought chicks.  Six of them.  There we were, driving home from the feed and seed, kids strapped into the minivan, a chirruping box on my lap, and the husband said, “I guess now we’d better get started on that chicken coop.”  “Yes, dear,” I replied, “this week we’ll pick a plan.”

Famous last words.

Fast forward five days.  The husband is in the military, and will be leaving home for almost a month, leaving me with rapidly growing chicks, three small children, and no chicken coop.  During the past week, my various attempts at coop planning had been thwarted by, well, life in general.  So imagine my surprise when the husband says on Friday night, “The kids are asleep, so I think I’ll head on over to Big Box Hardware and Lumber* and get stuff for the coop.”  “Don’t you think you should settle on a plan, first?”  I asked.

To give him credit, he did look over various chicken coop plans.  Too bad he paid no attention to anything like say, a materials list, or anything pesky like that.  Off he went.  And the following day, construction began.  Sort of.  (If you call the husband standing on the porch staring at lumber “began”.  I do.  Life with the husband has definitely taught me to be more flexible with specific definitions of words.  But that’s another post.)

Long story short, a week ago, the husband took off for a month, leaving me with the three small children, three rpaidly growing chicks, and an incomplete chicken coop… more to come.  For some reason, the words to “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille” have been flitting through my head these past few days.

But I can’t help but wonder:  if I hadn’t used that dreadful P word before he left for BBH&L, and used some alternate word (blueprints, maybe?), would I have a chicken coop now?

*Fake name, of course.

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