My brush with greatness: Marrying Brad Mosiman was easel-y the best move I've ever made

 A lot of things change over the course of a marriage. People change. Once you've endured the painful process of reading this blog...seriously, don't you have anything better to do (watching paint dry comes to mind)...you'll realize that I haven't changed one iota. But Brad has. That man has developed an Olympic-style measure of patience reflective of certain Bible figures, farmers, Nelson Mandela, and the Chicago Cubs.

Case-in-point:  Brad has been lamenting the deteriorating condition of our 40+ years old wood snow fence for the past few winters. I, on the other hand, continued to wonder why we even NEEDED the heavy, clumsy, difficult-to-store-and-wrestle-out contraption. Our bushes are fine:  Study and resilient. That dilapidated structure was an unnecessary crutch whose only purpose was to test the strength of my marriage while spot-lighting the fragility of my muscles and work ethic.

This year, Brad couldn't take it anymore. Like the Little Red Hen, he measured out the fence, picked up and purchased the wood, cut the pieces down to size, laid them out in our yard, and began to paint them while I, the Lazy Ostrich, buried my head in the sand and pretended I did not see what was going on around me. 

My conscience finally got the better of me and I wandered out there while Brad rolled paint over his fence replacement. "I'll paint," I offered, dismally. Brad handed me the long-handled roller and I promptly painted my foot. I peeked at him, waiting for a snarky comment or suggestion but he heroically refrained from speaking, busying himself with other activities. I then went to pour new paint in the pan and realized, too late, that Brad had systematically poured only from one side (to save mess?) and I, of course, poured, torrentially, from the opposite side. I immediately apologized and he, again, refrained from negative comment. 

I watched as my husband then carefully scanned the area and began to remove possible trouble spots. "I'm just going to move the lid over here," he told me before I could track green footprints all over his driveway. He watched me artfully plant a blade of grass green. He listened sympathetically as I complained that the act of rolling paint was not as easy as it is portrayed on commercials or sitcoms. "It's not rolling," I told my husband, exasperated, "You have to push down as you roll." He winced as I repeatedly let the roller slip off its device and I would grate against the wood and my husband's nerves. But still...patience, kindness, and tolerance. 

What IS this? I wondered and decided to poke this forbearing beast, just to see how far his patience limit could be pushed.

As he quietly cleaned up the mess I'd made of his paint can, I made my move.

"My daddy would nail holes around the top perimeter of the can to limit spillage," I shared.

Brad didn't even look up from his task. "Too bad your daddy didn't teach you how to paint."

I grinned. Good. He was still in there.