Marry a Man Who is Good With His Hands

Not only is this the last piece of advice given to me by my father, it is also the last real thing I remember him telling me before he passed away.  As I left his hospital room that Christmas evening from a “routine” stay to clean out his lungs,(he suffered from COPD and other smoking related lung issues) I hugged him goodbye.  Inadvertently I stepped on his toe, causing him to cuss. Nervously and apologetically I headed for the door, many family members still strewn about the room for a holiday visit. It is so like me to have stepped on his toes at a moment like this, when I’m attempting  a heartfelt exit. I’d been tip toeing around him my entire life, why should this moment be any different?

“Next time marry a man who is good with his hands,” he says to me as my departure is almost complete. An immature grin and probably a little bit of a blush creep across my face as I respond back over my shoulder, “Ok Dad.”

In my opinion, I was an obedient child growing up. The youngest of six,  there wasn’t much that I could get away with, and the reins were held tightly over what I was and was not allowed to do. Of course then it seemed like a  major injustice in the world, but now as a parent myself, I understand more than I could ever have dreamed possible.

Ok Dad, I finally get it…

By my side through this parenting journey is my husband of five years. A man whose sarcasm and quick wit were one of the reasons I fell in love with him.  A man who puts himself on the line to do anything and everything to make my life and my girls’ lives easier, all while carrying the burden on his strong, enduring shoulders. An electrician by trade, he is the most meticulous person I have ever met, with a knowledge of more than I can even fathom. I don’t think there is anything he can’t fix, build, design or any other skill associated with such tasks. From an engine, to fabricating a custom part, to building and stoning a fireplace, to mending our girls’ boo boos, and making me laugh when the tears are rolling down my cheeks, he makes everything better. He makes me better.

So when I think back to that hospital room, and my father’s last advice, my heart swells to know that  my dad would have been proud to have a son-in-law like my husband, and that I was able to follow my father’s last advice.

Thanks, Dad. 

 

This is in response to the Discover Challenge: A Piece of Advice

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