I am not a single parent. I was raised by one, so I have the utmost respect for those who take on that role. In my opinion, you have one of the toughest jobs in the world. I feel like hard working single parents deserve some kind of hero award…or free Target for life. One day I’ll write a blog post on the greatest single parent I have ever known…but every time I get three lines into writing that one, I’m crying like a big baby. But one day soon she will get to read hers.  

So as I was saying, I am not a single mom, but sometimes I have to be one. In the same way military wives, and farmer’s wives, and service wives have to assume that role as well. I don’t think our life is any harder than yours. I don’t think we deserve any special awards. And I certainly don’t think our role is equivalent to the role that true single parents play. This blog post is really just a reflection of the reality of being a fire wife. The ups, the downs, and the bond we share with other wives without knowing them. I see you and I understand exactly what you’re thinking when you say words like “mandatory” or “overtime”. So in honor of national firefighter’s day, here is a little dedication to my fellow fire wives. Let’s raise a glass and toast to each other. Cause we freakin deserve it.

Let’s toast to facetime dates. For us, these occur every night before the kids go to bed. Dad calls and each of the kids takes a turn telling him about their day. A day he wishes he could have been present for. Then our time as a couple starts and we try to make the most out of spending quality time with our spouse through a 5 inch screen with bad reception. Let’s also toast to having no space on our phones because we have to record every moment of our kids’ lives for them to watch when they get home.

Let’s toast to the smell of fire and smoke when they come off shift. Yeah. I said that. Maybe I am the only weird wife that tells her husband NOT to shower after a fire if he’s coming home soon. I wonder if lots of babies are conceived after fire season…

Let’s toast to mandatory overtime. Not because we love it. In fact, it may be the thing we hate the most about being a fire wife. For us, there is never an absolute day when daddy is coming home. There’s no long stretch of time gone and then a long stretch of time home. Time that has semi-firm dates. We live in a constant unknown and there is no rhyme or reason to that unknown. No pattern. I feel like every time someone asks me when Ryan is getting off shift, I need to reply with the day in air quotes. Because it never happens. Ryan is coming home on “Thursday”. Yeah, not likely.

Let’s toast to the sound of sirens. No matter where we are, we always seem to turn towards the sound, point at the trucks, and tell our kids “there’s daddy going to help someone!” Even though it isn’t him.

Let’s toast to the incredible friends and family who are there to step in and co-parent when we need them. You take our kids to school, to practice, and sometimes you just take them away from us. So that we can have 7 minutes of quiet to ourselves. We appreciate you and we love you.

Let’s toast to restraining from punching people in the face who tell us, “It must be nice to have a spouse that is home for two or three days straight.” I feel like this one needs no more words.  

Let’s toast to scheduled leave that doesn’t get cancelled. A rare stretch of vacation time when we as a family try to pack in every special event humanly possible. A trip to the beach, Disneyland, Mother’s Day, an anniversary, and about 6 birthdays.

Let’s toast to the understanding in our husband’s shift in mood or his prolonged silence after taking calls that do not end well. Or any call ever involving a child.

Let’s toast to finally getting away and hanging out with other fire couples, only to spend the entire night listening to the guys rehash the events of their last shift,  while we sip margaritas in the corner.

Let’s toast to holidays at the station, half of which are spent there…with firefighters dressed as Santa, the guys hiding Easter eggs, or taking our kids for their 100th ride on the truck for the 4th of July. We should also toast to holidays spent at home with every single family member asking where our spouse is. Like they took a personal vacation to Fiji and left us behind.

Let’s toast to hot uniforms. Don’t lie, those dress blues and bunker gear get us every time. I once asked Ryan how often he got hit on when he ran calls. In my head, I envisioned him showing up to houses with his bunker gear on, no shirt (cause of course that’s a reality), helmet under his arm, and soot smeared sexily across his cheek, rushing to the aid of a gorgeous blonde in distress. Who also just happens to be in lingerie. And of course, right before the call came in, he was outside washing the truck, with sudsy bubbles running down his 6-pack abs. When I said this to him, I really wish I had a video of his reaction. It was freaking hysterical. After the laughter subsided he tilted his head to one side, smiled, and told me that a majority of the time when running calls, he is in half bunker gear, half sweaty, dirty (not in the good way) t-shirt, no helmet, partially asleep, and tending to a large male who is usually naked and complaining of chest pain. I think I will stick to my vision…minus the hot blonde.

Let’s toast to washing 47 fire shirts and 56 pairs of black crew socks every three days.

Let’s toast to learning how to haphazardly fix things, build things, impersonate superheroes, and become an expert at every sport because our handyman/coach is not at home.

And finally…let’s toast to each other. A sisterhood of women who play the role of two. Let’s face it. We run this show ladies. While letting the guys remain under the impression that they run it. Wink. Wink.