I’ve called him “Mr. I Have a Better Way’’ since the dawn of time — well, actually since the dawn of us, affectionately, at first. “You are so smart to think of that!’’ I’d gush in my younger days when I’d be quarreling with something — the oil cap in my old English Ford, for example. It wouldn’t budge for me, but he’d come along and patiently cajole it into turning. And I would gush in awe at his competence.

But I do more sighing than gushing now. Not because my husband is no longer “Mr. I Have a Better Way,’’ but because he is. Because he is a master at a better way. If degrees were bestowed upon “Mr. I Have a Better Ways,’’ my husband would have his doctorate.

And that’s a good thing, isn’t it, to have someone you love show you the error of your ways?

“Why don’t you take pictures of the house all decorated for Christmas so that next year you’ll remember where things go?’’ he suggested when we got a smartphone.

I don’t want to take pictures, I told him. I like not knowing. I like being creative. Who wants to put things back in the same place every year?

He took pictures anyway, and that December, when I was unpacking the decorations, he showed them to me. And what do you know? It took me half as much time as it usually does to decorate.

“Why don’t you walk the lawnmower down the side lawn with the bag attached?’’ he said one day when he came home from work and caught me hoisting a bag full of grass 150 feet to empty it. “That way you’d be cutting the side lawn at the same time.’’

“You know, it’s easier to shovel mulch into a wheelbarrow if you use a pitchfork,’’ he said the spring I insisted on spreading 10 yards of mulch myself. He put up with my spreading the stuff — never mind that it took until September to finish and the mulch mountain took up half our driveway.

When Mr. I Have a Better Way bought himself a Franklin Planner many years ago, he enthusiastically went back to the store and bought me one. He showed me how to create monthly task lists, how to prioritize by using the letters a, b, and c, and how to transfer unfinished tasks to the next day.

He used his Franklin Planner the way it was intended to be used. Because of this, he never missed an appointment, and if called to testify even now about where he was and what he was doing on any given day in the 1980s and ’90s, he would know.

That’s the way he is. He plans. I plunge into things. He measures. I estimate. He reads every word. I skim. He is patient. I am not. He makes lists and keeps calendars and knows when and where he has been and when and where he is going. And, I am, well, all over the place.

I appreciate his wisdom. And his lifetime dedication to helping me navigate the world. I need his help. I am better because of his help. And yet I buck at it.

A shared digital calendar is our latest challenge. I don’t do it the way I should. I type in a time without a place. I type in a place without a time. I don’t always write down appointments. “It says here you have a singing lesson with John at 12:00 a.m.,’’ he says, and I say, “So? I know it’s p.m. What does it matter?’’

It matters, he tells me.

“I hate sharing. Why do we have to share a calendar? I don’t want to share!’’ I say with not a shred of affection.

Then I see that I have a speaking engagement. I see that I’ve written down the time: Speaking 2:00 p.m., Thursday. But where am I speaking and to whom?

I search my e-mails. I search my files. I search the random notes I have all over my office.

“Mr. I Have a Better Way’’ does not reprimand. He does not say, “See? This is why you need to write things down correctly.’’ He does not say, even with his eyes, “I told you so.’’

He simply does what he always does. He hugs me, and I sigh.

Beverly Beckham’s column appears every two weeks. She can be reached at bevbeckham@gmail.com.