Thin Blue Line

People often ask what it's like being married to a cop. The answer I give them is one thing. The real answer is another.

I have a huge appreciation for LEOs everywhere - and I mean HUGE. But I can't stand the job. I basically hate it with every ounce of hatred in me. But my husband loves it and I admire him for doing it. And, he's pretty stinking good at it.

No doubt it's a huge part of our life together. There's not a single date-night dinner I can remember where he hasn't mentioned a dope case he made or a crazy DUI on night shift. All of it makes him so happy, and I'm extremely proud of him for caring about his job so much.

But no matter how many times I hear someone say it or I read it, it always crawls all under my skin and bubbles up until there is steam almost shooting out of my ears and any patience I had left completely escapes me. "There's no such thing as a 'good cop'." or "All cops are bad cops." They're one in the same. But they're both wrong.

Pigs, coppers, bacon, bastards in blue, brass, doughnut squad, muskars, the heat, narcs - whatever you call them, they're people. With families. And children that they deserve to watch grow up.

I was on the phone with my husband last weekend while he was on-duty and he was on his way to a gas station to get cash back. He was answering a call and passed a 5th grade boy selling lemonade for 25 cents a cup at the end of his driveway. My husband wanted to get cash so he could stop and visit with this kid and enjoy some lemonade. He, with the heart of gold that he has, said to me, "It's just so cool to see a kid doing good. I just want to tell him!" Especially when you just left a call at the local Dollar General because two preteen hooligans tried to rob it. And I guarantee that's the best $5.00 cup of lemonade my sweet cop ever drank.

No, not all law enforcement officers are like that. There are bad ones, but believe me, the good ones far outnumber the "dirty cops." And it burns me to my very core when people who know NOTHING about police or what it's like to care about one so deeply say such awfully untrue things.

So what's it like to be married to one? It is constant worry. (For me) It's constantly having your faith tested when you haven't heard from him in several hours, and he still doesn't answer when you call. It's waking up and realizing it's 7:30 a.m. and panicking because he should have been home and hour and a half ago. It's planning everything - holidays, birthdays, trips, your off days, doctors appointments, parties, everything - around his splotchy schedule. It's checking his work calendar on the cork board in the laundry room and fighting back the tears when you see that he works Fourth of July weekend, your birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day all in the same year. It's sleeping alone. It's walking down the grocery store aisle and hearing "I'll be back" and not questioning it - you already understand that there's someone inside the store that recognizes him as their arresting officer, and he doesn't want that person to know who his family is. It's a steamy bullet proof vest draped across the back of the couch, and collar brass and the contents of all his 367 pockets on the granite counter tops you just polished. And if you're lucky, it's his dirty, yes dirty, socks wadded up UNDER YOUR PILLOW when you crawl into bed alone one night. (Yes that really happened. No, neither of us know how. Night shift makes my husband do crazy things that he doesn't claim responsibility for.)

But it's so much more than that. It's standing beside him at an awards ceremony because you're so incredibly proud of his accomplishments. It's the squad-family cookouts on weekends off. And it's sitting in bed together in the mornings eating your Hardee's biscuits during that half hour between him coming home from work and you leaving.. just so you can see each other that day.

Until you've wrapped your arms around a man who has come home late because he was sitting with children while DHR was on the way to take them into foster care because of a drunken mother, I don't want to hear your negative opinion of law enforcement.

You just don't get it. And you won't, and I understand that. To those who respect law enforcement, thank you.

I'll trip over that man's smelly boots everyday for the rest of my life if it means he came home.

Lessons from Louise

I've been told for a while now - the 7 years that I've known my husband - that no one makes fried okra like his grandmother. No one. "So don't even try it unless you do it her way." Those are his words, verbatim.

So finally, after 7 years of constant chatter about Mamaw's fried okra, I decided to find out her secret. The secret? There is no secret. "There's no special secret to it, I think he just likes it because I make it." Her words, verbatim.

But I'm not a fryer. One, I don't like the way it stinks up my house, and two, I don't like anything that splatters when I cook it. I'm not a clean-freak at all. Maybe a little.

I called Louise (Mamaw) last week and told her Rob had gotten some okra from a lady at work and I needed her to teach me how it's done so he would get off my case about it! =) She so sweetly agreed, and I spent several hours last Saturday learning her country kitchen ways. Let's get real - I can always use tips in the kitchen. Unless it's a cheesecake, a casserole, a grilled cheese or tacos, I'm probably not the one to call. But if you want any of those things, I'm your girl.

After my phone call I was quickly overwhelmed with emotion. Not because I was excited about okra. Because I was so looking forward to time with a grandmother figure. I've always felt close to Rob's entire family since I first met him. I immediately hit it off with them. But there's just something about his Mamaw that reminds me of my late grandmother. We even talked about how she really loved getting to know my grandmother during the short time they spent together. She was looking forward to becoming "such great friends." She even said, "I could just see us sharing Miss Harper." She's such a doll. For that, I am grateful.

Alas, the cutting began. She wanted to show me from start to finish how she does it so that Rob would be pleased. =) Once it was ready, she showed me how to do it any way imaginable - fried, boiled, steamed - you name it. She even tried a recipe she had just seen in an issue of Southern Living. But it didn't make the cut, per Rob's Paw Paw. 

And once the fried okra was scooped from the cast-iron skillet, it's like my hubby could smell it from miles away. He showed up while on-duty (luckily he has an awesome Sergeant) to have a quick lunch with us. 

I learned a lot Saturday. The most important thing - make the time. Stop saying, "I really should do that" and do it. 

Make the time. It's always worth it.