***Disclaimer: This post is rambling, sorry if you have trouble following along.
It's no secret that my husband likes to work. A lot. I mean, he really likes to work. He is a carpenter, and so I imagine he gets satisfaction out of building something. He starts a job, and then completes it. Usually in a pretty quick manner. But the sense of satisfaction can't be all that drives him. I often wonder why it is that some people have this insane driving force inside of them, and others (me), just, well, don't.
On one hand, I could say that Workaholic gets his addiction from his father. He is the oldest, and so he probably grew up wanting to be "just like dad". And anyone who knows my father-in-law in real life knows that he is also a Workaholic. He was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth or given any sort of advantage. Every step up the ladder (heehee) he took, he earned with blood and sweat. (I'd say tears, but I am pretty sure he doesn't cry.) And anyone who knows my father-in-law in real life also knows that he has earned everything that he has. (Of course, he also married a woman who is fabulous in managing a household and business, including the finances. That probably helped things a little.)
On the other hand, you could say that birth order played a role...since youngest children stereotypically aren't quite as...driven, as oldest children. Regardless, my Workaholic's addiction is the reason why I am sitting here waiting for him to get home at 10:45pm. I'm OK with it, because if he was here, I would not have been able to write this blog or watch the episode of Army Wives that I saw earlier. Have you ever seen that show?? It's great.
So there I am, sitting all alone in my basement, curled up under a blanket in the recliner, (yeah...we keep our house a little cool) eating a bowl of ice cream, (what??) and bawling my freaking eyes out. Stupid me chooses to watch the episode where all the main characters' husbands get deployed. For at least a year. And one of them is very pregnant with a baby girl. Sigh. I seriously think I cried for a half hour straight.
It made me very grateful that my Workaholic is coming home tonight. I may not see him, or see him in the morning, but I will see him in less than a year. A big THANK YOU to all the armed forces who work tirelessly for our country. And a big THANK YOU to my Workaholic who works so tirelessly for me. (Oh, who am I kidding, he totally does it for himself. And maybe Sam. But I'm still glad he does it.)