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 beat myself up for not knowing the things I couldn’t have known, for not controlling the things I couldn’t control. It’s only 6 p.m., but I could’ve 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, maybe even laughed over the little things, before the sun dipped too low and the mosquitoes started biting.
I peeked my head inside to call my husband, letting him know supper was ready, only to hear that familiar sigh: he’d been called into work. Just like that, my careful plan to carve out a little family time fell apart.
I had imagined that after a long day in the yard, he and I could steal a few moments: him trimming the stubborn patches of grass, me finishing the gravy, then finally sitting down together for dinner. Afterwards, we’d put the kids to bed, share a quiet cup of coffee, and maybe, just maybe, go to bed at the same time in the same bed.
You’d think I’d have learned by now. Those moments of calm—porch swing, kids laughing, the world slowing down—are exactly when life’s quiet is pierced by a ringtone. Sometimes it’s nothing; a false alarm. My sigh of relief becomes the green light, a quiet affirmation that the chaos isn’t necessary.
Other times… the automated voice comes on. “This message is for…” The details blur in my mind, but the outcome is clear. Tonight, the automated voice won. I heard the shower running, and walked into our bedroom to see his black work bag half-packed on the floor.
I checked the dryer for two pairs of work pants—because laundry wasn’t on my radar today—shook them out, folded them, and placed them on the chair. Thick black socks, solid-colored shirts with pockets, gym shorts just in case… each item stacked neatly, ready to be thrown into his bag in a hurried, pre-dawn rush.
Our oldest sat at the kitchen table, school notebook open, ready to tackle homework. “You can play, and we’ll do this in thirty minutes,” I said.
Meanwhile, our one-year-old trailed behind me, whining until he was perched on my hip, where I balanced two plums and a bag of chips on top of the Tupperware container. I set it on the counter so he wouldn’t miss it while already thinking about crossing signs and safety checks on the railroad.
None of this seems extraordinary. Wives packing lunches, husbands leaving for work. It’s the game we play, the constant guessing, the waiting.
Railroad Wife
Surprises keep a marriage alive, right? I like hamburgers for breakfast. I like our “weekend” date on a Monday. But surprises also keep stress alive. The day before Thanksgiving is spent compulsively refreshing boards, checking for the next train, the next shift, only for Johnny to call in sick. The playing field never ends.
Sometimes, life feels like a fifty-yard rush in minutes. Other times, we inch forward slowly, taking hits, watching as chaos unfolds. Being a railroad wife is a paradox: it’s a stable breadwinner who provides for a family of four, nice vacations twice a year, retirement and insurance. It’s also knowing he’s half-present at dinner, wishing I had cooked a home meal because the last three were eaten on the road.
It’s herding kids alone at ballgames while strangers judge absent fathers. It’s marriage advice that doesn’t account for unpredictability: syncing calendars, never going to bed angry—advice that clashes with screaming arguments before a 36-hour trip.
Sometimes, I feel like a single mom in all but name. The weight of doing everything alone, of raising children while he’s away, is heavy. Yet having endured true single motherhood in the past, I tap into gratitude when frustration peaks over getting kids ready for church alone.
The mornings tell the story: he sleeps at 6:30 a.m. while I navigate before-school chaos with scrambled eggs and envy. He puts on his coat and vest at 3 a.m., while I dream under warm covers. This is marriage under sleep deprivation, under pressure, under unending shifts.
Monday, I care for a feverish baby while he sleeps in a quiet hotel room. Tuesday, I nap at home as rain pounds the tracks he walks. We are two engines pulling in opposite directions, while cars loaded with responsibilities pile up at the crossing signs. Yet, when we align, when we pull together, the path clears, and the cars—our family, our life—move forward.
Railroad Husband
To my hardworking railroad husband:
I promise to keep quick, easy-to-grab leftovers in the fridge for nights when you quietly leave at midnight, letting me sleep while you creep out the door. I promise to hold things down at home, to include you in what you miss through pictures, texts, or whispers. I promise to always find you impossibly cute in your yellow vest and work boots.
I will learn to read the exhaustion in your face after a twelve-hour shift, whether you crash on the couch or jump straight into the shower. I will stay up a little later to share moments with you, even when little feet wake me too early the next morning.
I will keep growing into independence, embracing the unpredictability, rolling with the punches, and cherishing the time between your shifts. Time is fleeting; it always seems endless until it isn’t. I will be grateful for every moment we have, together or apart, knowing that at the end of the day, he is coming home. And that is enough.
