My Husband. Your Doctor.

Speeding through town, I had just dropped off a kid at football practice. I raced back to the church to drop off another kid,  then drove quickly to a soccer practice for a third.  At about 7:00, I start to lose my cool.  I'm used to my husband being late. But tonight I was frustrated. I sat in the parking lot with two babies, strapped in their seatbelts, fidgeting and whining behind me. I sent a rather mean spirited text to my husband.

"You said you would be home tonight to help with carpools. Where are you?"

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. I just made a grown man cry like a baby. I'm doing my best to hurry"
You see, my husband is a pediatric hematologist/oncologist. That's code for a kid cancer doctor.

I stared.
At that blasted phone.
It was that same phone I stared at months ago after driving with five kids in a freezing Nebraska blizzard to our child's' first piano recital. James never came.  I had to take the two disruptive little kids out.  I missed the performance. I sent a similar frustrated text to my husband.

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. We just got some labs back for a patient. I had to tell his parents that there was nothing more we could do. They are crying. They asked if I could please help them tell their son."

These are not isolated instances. This is our life. A mom at home trying desperately to save her family. A dad at the hospital trying desperately to save yours.
I continue to stare at the phone. Ashamed at my frustration. Knowing a family needs my husband much more than I.  I sit in the parking lot and cry for you. I bow my head as our minivan becomes a sacred altar and I pray for you.  And I pray for him. Every night. That he will be inspired how to help you. And your baby. I don't know who you are. And I never will. But we share something in common. My husband. And your doctor.

He leaves the house before the kids are at school. He misses soccer games, Scouting Court of Honors, piano recitals and football practices. We chose this life. And we chose it together. I forgive his absence. And he forgives my frustration.

My husband has two lives. Ours and yours.  I'm grateful that he's mine. And grateful that he's yours. There's no one else I'd rather share him with. I think he's pretty great. And sometimes I really miss him when he's with you. But I know you need him more.

Why does my husband always get hit on, and I never do?

 Seriously...people of my gender... when did a wedding ring became an invitation?
I will be completely honest with you. If I ever considered having an affair, it would not be with a married man. Chances are, he has kids. I've already got plenty of those.

He started getting hit on in residency. An older woman came up to him in a patient room (just the two of them) and pronounced, "Um-um. I could drink champagne straight out of your dimples." Wow. Even I had never thought of doing that.

Once at a medical conference, a girl came up to him at a restaurant. He was sitting with his colleagues. Apparently, in his words, she was pretty attractive. She brushed his shoulder and gave him the eye. He ignored her. But his buddy didn't. He saw what was going on and said, "hey, if you're not going after that, I will."

In fellowship, another woman called him, "Dr. Sexy."

I try to explain to him that he gets hit on because he happens to be a doctor. My mom is married to a doctor. She warned me a long time ago that it would happen. But he is sure it is because he is so darn good looking.

Your not alone in wondering what may be wrong with me. Why doesn't anyone want to drink champagne from my dimples?

In my defense:
My car smells like old French fries and spoiled milk (and that's after I've been through the car wash).
I have a gut that hangs over my pants because I can't give up Coke. Oh, and in case you missed it, I carried five children in there too.  I am hardly ever, without at least one child with a runny nose and bare feet. And let's be honest, school book fairs and PTA meetings aren't really known for being pick-up parties. Let's just say, I don't get out much.
And to be honest, if anyone wanted to hit on a mom with five kids, I don't think they are in it for the long haul.

So here I stand. With a hit on husband. I love how he thinks it's funny.  He is my Dr. Sexy. And I get to be his best friend.  Maybe one day I'll even get hit on too. But for now,
I think I'll go drink some Coke from his dimples.

"Just a Mom"

My husband in a doctor. I'm not. In fact, I have a degree in English.  Whenever I am asked what I do, I instantly reply, "I'm just a mom." Sometimes I worry I am not enough. Sometimes I wonder what I am actually contributing to the world. I mean, my husband is saving kids with cancer for heaven sakes. I clean urine off the toilet seats. I do a great job at the urine cleaning and all...but it's not like I need a doctorate for it. But sometimes, just sometimes, my urine cleaning is put aside for just a moment. And something like this happens. 
I lay there in a king size bed. Smashed between two toddler bodies. One a boy. And one a 

girl.  It was late and dark. My four year old son lay on my right side. He quietly slid into silent slumber. I could hear his breathing slow, and then become almost inaudible. A sign of his passing into dreamland. My toddler girl, on the other hand lay to my left. She was uneasy. Perhaps hyper.  I was exhausted and couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of bed one more time. I tried all of my old tricks. Singing, scratching the back, whispering secrets in her ear. Nothing. Nothing worked. I finally decided to lay there. Still as can be. Maybe she would see that everyone was asleep and join her brother in his dreams. I lay beside her. Breathless. Pretending. She didn’t take the bait. She felt around in the dark for my familiar face. She reached her skinny, short, warm clammy arms around my neck. She squeezed my face next to her chest. I felt like I was being strangled just like a prey to a reticulated python…I knew every constricting snake, thanks to my years of reading disgusting bedtime stories to my now older boys. Even after years of trying to forget the disturbing snake images in children’s books, I could still see that reticulated python strangling it’s prey. I was now the prey. To a three year old little girl. But this time, it wasn’t disturbing. Not even at all. I struggled to breath in her death grip. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. Her movements softened. Slowly. The adorable 3 year old python had it’s 38 year old tired, exhausted prey. The prey found herself to be unexplainably…happy. Perhaps even…joyful. I lay there in bed. Staring blankly at the dark ceiling. The python quietly slipped into slumber. Her grip still held my neck in firm choking stance. But that night, I lay there.  Strangely struggling to breathe. Completely at peace. Thinking that this moment, was worth a thousand bad ones. That at this one, little piece of time, I couldn’t have wanted to be anything…anything. But “just a mom.”