12-021
I WISH I HAD MARRIED A
CHIROPRACTOR
Remember when you first brought your baby home from the
hospital, where he/she slept peacefully between feedings? And you thought that
this baby thing would be a breeze? But suddenly, three hours after you got
back, and you were just settling your episiotomy into a nice warm sitz bath,
the squalling started? Nothing worked. You tried rocking. Walking back and
forth to the light of the moon. The vacuum cleaner. Driving around in the car
was effective, but not the perfect solution. If only you had married a pediatrician!
Fast forward a few years. The kids are suddenly very quiet.
You go upstairs, where they are sitting in a hushed circle around what remains
of a sock monkey. Interrogation reveals nothing. You give up, and on the way
back downstairs take a pit stop to pee, and when the toilet flushes, you
realize to your horror as the water level creeps upward, upward, and finally
overflows, that THIS is what happened to the sock monkey’s head! And you would
give anything to have a plumber for a spouse.
Oh, and then there is the harrowing night that you discover
a suspicious looking brown spot on your thigh. When you Google it, it seems to
be identical to the pictures of melanoma on the “WebMD” site. You panic, scenes
of your children crying at your funeral and wearing outfits chosen by your
husband to school: striped leggings, a tutu, topped by a Cleveland Browns
sweatshirt. And you wish you had married a dermatologist.
Then there is the week after those torrential rains. A cold
front comes through the area, and it starts to snow. The gutters, still full of
leaves and sticks, haven’t drained properly, and you get what is called “ice
damming” up there. So water begins to drip into the master bedroom, turning the
new wall to wall carpeting into a cold, soggy mess? You would kill to have a
roofer for a husband.
Yesterday, you saw a horrifying documentary about the
economy. Bill Moyers and his guests—or maybe it was Morley Safer—were
discussing how nothing we own is worth anything these days. The housing market
may never rebound. The stock market is so erratic! The one percent seems to
have made friends with Mark Zuckerberg while he was still at Harvard, so they
all have Facebook stock. You look around at your living room. You had planned
to recover the sofa and buy new lamps. But who knows if your nest egg will
stretch far enough to cover all the home improvements you need? Will you ever
be able to retire? If only you could ask an expert! On days like this, you wish
you had married a pundit.
I understand totally. My husband is an accordion player.