Sunday

For the first weekend in I don't know how long, Hubster isn't motivated to get outside and mix cement, build walls, or even stock wood. He's tired. Down right tired.

And who can blame him? He works full time and then on his weekends, he's doing his best to become Bob The Builder. And unfortunately for him, I'm a lousy Wendy and the kids can only sing about as good as Roley.

It must drive him crazy, these busy weekends, to know that he's out there chucking cement around all because his wife has this thing for dogs that escape and eat chickens. I'm not even sure that Hubster likes the dogs, to tell you the truth.

He dreams of the day when we'll have a dog that will actually go for a walk with us, rather than having to hang on to dear life to a dog who is in the process of ripping your arms out of your sockets. He loves the idea of a simple Labrador or German Shepherd who will be regal and loving, a dog who will not have recreated the trenches of WWI in our front yard, a dog who will actually come back to you when you call it rather then giving you that husky look that basically translates in every language as, "F-you!"

The people in the village think I'm nuts because I love my huskies. But sometimes I wonder if they think Hubster is even more insane than I am because he actually finds ways to let me have these dogs. Perhaps he knows that this addiction is bigger than I am and somewhere in his heart, he's got a thing for all that fur as well.

I hear him outside now, sanding down a desk he's been wanting to redo for a while now. Working with his hands to take something that needs a little love and attention, putting it right, getting it clean and beautiful. He's good at focusing the minute details, my Hubster. And the end result is always proof that taking your time and doing something as it should be done beats my "can-we-just-duct-tape-it" approach every single time.

A Sunday with a project done. A simple pleasure in making something new.

The cement can wait.