Mom Duties
Tonight, I scraped every last bit of beef tips and rice into a Tupperware container.
Why didn’t I start supper earlier?
I berated myself for not knowing what I couldn’t have known and for failing to control what I couldn’t control. It was only 6 p.m.—I could have had this done an hour ago. I didn’t need to linger on the porch swing, watching the kids play. We could have eaten together sooner, shared laughter before the sun dimmed and mosquitoes bit.
The sound of the weedeater and my husband’s phone buzzing became synonymous as I peeked out the door to tell him supper was ready. He told me he’d been called into work. Just like that, the quiet evening I’d imagined—the gravy finished, a few grassy patches trimmed, the kids in bed, a moment to breathe together—vanished.
You’d think I’d learn. Sitting there on the porch swing, savoring those rare quiet minutes, the ringtone always breaks through. Sometimes it’s a false alarm, and the sigh of relief washes over me: “Mmm, no thank you.” Other times, the automated voice cuts in: “This message is for…” And suddenly, the night I planned has to pivot to reality. Tonight, the automated voice won. I heard the shower running and saw the black work bag half-packed on the floor.
I checked the dryer for two pairs of work pants—because laundry hadn’t crossed my mind today—shook them out, folded them neatly, and placed them on the bedroom chair. Two pairs of thick, black socks followed. Two solid-colored shirts with pockets. Gym shorts, because you never know. He’ll pack them his way, in a hurry, before rushing out the door.
Our oldest son sat at the kitchen table with his notebook open, ready for homework. “Play for thirty minutes,” I said. Meanwhile, my one-year-old followed me around, whining, until I settled him on my hip and added two plums and a bag of chips on top of the Tupperware container. The container went on the counter where my husband wouldn’t miss it as he navigated the night, railroad signs flashing and safety checks running through his mind.
I know this may seem ordinary—wives packing meals, husbands leaving for work—but this is our game: the guessing, the waiting, the constant tension of uncertainty.
Railroad Wife
Surprises keep marriage alive, right? I love eating hamburgers for breakfast. I enjoy having our “weekend” date on a Monday. Surprises also keep the stress alive.
The day before Thanksgiving, I compulsively refresh the board to see when the next train leaves, when the next job opens, only for Johnny to call in sick. The playing field is endless. Sometimes we complete a fifty-yard rush in minutes; other times, every fourth down drags us forward inch by inch. Sometimes a sack knocks us back. Wheels stop turning. Engines stall. A crack addict runs into a train, and I watch it unfold via live news from my living room.
Being a railroad wife means having a husband who can provide for a family of four, vacations twice a year, insurance, health coverage, retirement. It also means dining out while your spouse’s mind races over schedules, hoping for just a few uninterrupted bites of a home-cooked meal. It means ballgames alone, judgment from strangers, advice to sync calendars—when calendars have long been a foreign concept. It means listening to preachers urge you never to go to bed angry, even after a screaming argument before a 36-hour trip.
I feel the weight of the single-parent moments. I take my kids everywhere, often alone. The thought of a third child isn’t whether we could handle it—but whether I could, when he’s gone. Yet, having been a single mom in the past, I find gratitude in these small, exhausting, chaotic moments, even when little feet pitter-patter down the hallway at 6:30 a.m. and I sip scrambled eggs with a side of envy. Meanwhile, he dons his coat and vest at 3 a.m., exhaustion etched in every movement.
Marriage, especially one tested by sleep deprivation, jobs, and kids, is a constant give and take. Monday, I’m home with a sick baby while he sleeps in a silent hotel. Tuesday, I nap in a quiet house while rain pelts his hat and shoulders in the railyard. Sometimes we move in opposite directions, engines tugging left and right, cars of obligations stacking behind railroad crossing signs. But when we align, we lift the crossings, letting life—God, kids, work, love—flow into our yard together.
Railroad Husband
To my hardworking railroad husband:
I promise to keep quick, easy-to-grab leftovers ready for those nights you quietly slip out at midnight. I promise to hold the fort while you make our lives better. I promise to include you in the moments you miss, even if it’s through photos. I promise to think you’re the cutest thing in your yellow vest and work boots—most attractive thing ever. I promise to read the faces that reveal a 12-hour day on the tracks in the ten-minute drive home.
Some nights, you fall asleep on the couch in dirty jeans—sleeping in jeans is its own level of exhaustion. I know the anxiety, the constant alertness, the demand of your work is just as hard as mine. When your vest reads, I’m coming home, I try not to ask when—and instead, I give thanks that you are.
I will stay up late to spend those precious moments with you, even if regret whispers the next morning. I will grow into an independent partner, rolling with the punches, embracing change, and cherishing the time we have between your comings and goings. Because time—true time—is fleeting. And in marriage, we learn to hold it, treasure it, and keep moving forward, together.
