When they're asked to do more

In our tanking economy, it seems that across the board more is being expected of workers, and they're getting less in return. As police wives, though, we know all too well how often our officer spouses get the short end of the stick. They're always expected to do more than is expected. We know that the end of their shift isn't necessarily the end of their shift, and their days off aren't set in stone.

This past week the leader of the local chapter of a prominent national gang was shot and killed, and his funeral is taking place on Saturday. So just as we started making plans for our days off together—the first in three weeks—Noah was told that he and his squad have to work this weekend. The consolation prize? They'll get Wednesday off instead. Wednesday. When I'm at work.

For me, the time apart is worse than the worry. I have no control over what happens while Noah's working his shift, so I try not to think about it too much. But it's the disappointment of expecting those precious few hours together and having them taken away—usually last minute—that really hits me the hardest. I remember once, while I was pregnant, I was lying in bed trying to sleep, expecting Noah to be home at 1 am. I knew that once he got home I'd be able to rest, and the next day was his first off after a shift (and the only one we'd have off together). Just before he was supposed to get home, I got the call: He had to work overtime, and much of the next day—OUR day— would surely be spent sleeping. I fell apart. I needed him, and he couldn't be there with me.

In the grand scheme of things, it's easy to say "It's just one Saturday." But it's OUR Saturday. It's our precious and somewhat rare day at home together with our son.

As strange as it may seem, of course I feel for the friends and family of the man who was shot. But the fact that I have to give up a day with my husband, that I have to give up some of our precious time, so that he can keep order and safety at a funeral, an event that's supposed to be quiet and mournful...that's just too much.

At the moment I'm trying to train for my first sprint triathlon, something I've decided to do for me. To show myself that I can do things that I used to think I couldn't. Funny enough, being a police wife has taught me that I can handle a lot more than I ever would have thought. But with Noah's schedule of long hours and unpredictable free time, it's been really hard to find time to train. I can't swim when Ethan is with me. I can't bike, because I don't have a bike seat and can't really afford one. I can run, but with the inhibiting jogger stroller and only for short periods of time before Ethan gets fussy because it's too hot. I don't have a whole lot of family or friends close by who can pop over for an hour and watch the baby for me. Sometimes I feel like a single mom. (Although all props go to real single moms. I don't know how they do it!)

Added into this crazy mix, it was recently announced at work that we'd all have to take turns staying an hour later than many of us are used to, a complication that under normal circumstances wouldn't be that big of a deal.

But when your husband is a cop, every hour lost is a big deal. And every day lost, well. That's even worse.