My husband is a doctor. Oh, no. Not that kind of doctor. A PhD, not an MD. Thank God. Do you have any idea the schedules MDs keep? My mother worked in health care and growing up I always thought my friends who wanted to marry doctors were seriously misguided. Sure, your husband is literally saving lives, but people get sick on Christmas and your kids’ birthdays. Families of medical doctors have to sacrifice in ways many don’t consider.
I am proud to be married to a scientist. He’s using his intelligence to do important work, and his schedule is family friendly. His field brings together interesting people from all over the world, and our lives are richer because of it. Most importantly, his employer sponsors a weekly happy hour, which I like to crash on a fairly regular basis.
Since he doesn’t particularly want all of you crazies out there to know too much about us, for the purpose of this blog, I’m going to refer to him as The Doctor. He’s going to hate this, and I should have asked him before writing this post, but I know he would have said no. I take every opportunity to throw Dr. around. You have to admit, Dr. and Mrs. sounds super fancy, and let me tell you, it looks fantastic on an RSVP card.
The Doctor (for fun try saying it with a pretentious air) and I have been married nine years. We met in college, where I decided very early on that I was going to marry him and have his babies. He was, and still is, much more level headed and cautious than I, and thought it may be best to wait more than three months to discuss marriage. Three YEARS later he proposed. His precise and methodical way of making decisions is one of the things I love about him, but is also the thing that makes me bat-shit crazy.
We make a good team. We are friends and partners, and I am proud to have him by my side. He tolerates my lack luster housekeeping skills, he is a fun and stern and present father, he enjoys laughing at our kids as much as I do, and he still grabs my ass when he kisses me.