My husband Davy’s worked the night shift twice this week. He drives big machines that scare me, at the Port of Ghent. He’s a docker.
Davy doesn’t do night shifts very often anymore like he used to, although it pays well, because it takes a lot out of him. It blurs two days into one because the shift starts at 10pm at night and ends at roughly 6am the next morning. His personal time zone is off, and it’s draining. Since Noah’s been born, everything’s a little more draining by default. Active parenting is tiring, but it’s the kind of tiring that magically disappears when Noah’s learned a new word or when he lays on us a sweet random kiss.
But two nights this week, Davy’s worked the night shift and come home in the early morning. He works so hard. He’s always worked very hard.
It’s not been easy choosing to stay at home to care for Noah, and Davy shouldering the brunt as main breadwinner. It’s not been impossible either. We’ve made it this far and Noah’s bright, and pretty brilliant for just a year-and-a-half old. We know we made the right decision to sacrifice some luxuries so Noah could be at home with me. I’m being biased and unbiased about all of this. But we’re not rich. We have no debts, and that’s what’s most important.
My winnings from Big Brother are long gone, for those who have asked, because prize money should never just be just kept sitting in cash. But I’d trade everything I did with the $500,000 anyway, just to have my dad back and my grandfather too. If only money could buy life.
Money can’t buy life. Living is worth more than any money. While Davy works I write. I write these blogs, and I write letters I will never mail, and I piece everything together in the hopes of making a bigger difference to someone one day.
It’s not easy being married to a writer. It can’t be. But then again it can’t be all that easy being married to me to begin with. Davy seems to make it look easy. I’m lucky.
I hope one day he never has to work another night shift again.