I feel sorry for my husband working days at the PD. He has to wear a dark uniform and layers of body armor in the Florida heat, while dealing with a lot of things that involve traffic and standing out in the heat for hours on end, through the lunch rush, and the tropical thunderstorms and all the rest of it.

He has to maintain patience while sweating his ass off, people yelling about needing truck accident lawyers, suing the police department for unfairness, how they know the mayor and the police chief and are going to have his job, some times over ridiculous things. I just have to deal with our two year old’s temper tantrums.

He deals a lot with people who never really want to see him. I’m not sure when the last time he was thanked for doing his job is, as he melts in his boots directing traffic, answering questions, persuading people that the president’s family are not trying to resurrect the Round Table and destroy the universe…or that the local bartender is not shooting lasers into their house.

Then he comes home and deals with us, the two-year old throwing tantrums because I won’t let him pull the cat’s tail off, the messy house that I can’t keep up with most of the time, drama with our friends, drama with our families, watching the kid for me so that I can catch a break and actually pee in private.

It’s a lot of craziness, but we get through it.