The past couple of weeks have been a bit stressful, and this past weekend involved a lot of driving. Which was totally my choice, I chose sleeping in a bed and seeing my kid, over staying the night at the hospital with my dad. But by Sunday night, my brain was just a tad bit fuddled.
You see, it’s about an hour and fifteen minute drive from my parent’s house to my house. Workaholic and I had driven separately down; he drove his work van loaded with tools to help our friends build a new deck for their hot tub, and I drove the minivan. The red race car was already at my parents’ house, we had given it to my sister when she arrived in the country.
So after dinner, after dark, we are driving home. Workaholic in his van, me in my van, the red race car sitting in my parent’s driveway. About 25 minutes from home, something snapped in my head. I realized that I had left my laptop in the red race car, behind the seat. I had taken it out of the trunk, because I would totally forget it if I left it in the truck! If it was behind the seat, I would surely see it! (As it turns out, Workaholic had checked the trunk, only to find it empty, and figured that I had put the laptop in my van)
I swear, my heart just stopped. It was 8:30 on a Sunday night, we both had to work the next day, I was exhausted from the weekend, hell…the past couple of weeks, and I needed my laptop. It’s my work laptop. Filled with dread, I picked up the phone to explain to Workaholic why I was jerking into the right lane and exiting. I needed to turn around. And this is where I got my Mother’s Day present early. He told me to keep driving, get the girl to bed, and HE would turn around and go get my precious, stupid laptop. And then he did.
When he got home, he wasn’t angry or resentful or bitter or anything. He simply put the bag and my light jacket in my van so I wouldn’t forget them in the morning, and then came up and took a shower and we talked and went to sleep. Of course, he had to make the obligatory joke about how I can repay him *winkwink* (OK, so maybe it wasn’t a joke), but that was it. And that is why he is so wonderful. Maybe I should start calling him Wonderful Workaholic. (No…that’s waay too much to type.) He takes care of me. When I do stupid shit, when I say stupid shit, and when I fall apart…he is there. I’m going to need to think of something real good for Father’s Day.