There Can Be Only One Captain

Joke

After nearly 15 years of marriage and fishing and kids and more fishing we’ve pretty much worked out our ‘normal’ way of life. Chris wakes up very early (or often in the middle of the night) and goes fishing. This is what he does. Like, all the time. No exceptions. He handles all the things that have to do with taking the boat to the fish, getting the fish on board and bringing them in to market. Then he keeps doing this over and over.  And I, being The Mom and Fisherman’s Wife am in total and complete charge of well…. every single thing else. *Disclaimer: If this little essay were titled ‘The Fisherman’ you might or might not hear a totally different version of this. But, it’s not called that. So… let’s move on with my version (the only correct one) of our life.

Like I was saying…. It would be ‘normal’ for us, that pretty much all of everything else would be totally left to my impeccable discretion. (My story, my version…remember?) The major things that require an expensive or otherwise weighty decision will warrant a Sat phone call to the boat, and usually in short, scratchy bursts of communication we figure things out. But all of the other stuff… that’s all my domain. With The Big Guy being gone from home nearly 6 months out of every year we’ve been married and often not even within phone call range, someone must take on the role of final decision maker. Luckily, ‘in control’ is my happy place. So it’s a win-win. I’m used to living this way. Chris is used to living this way. All is well.

Enter The Crab. Since Chris has been focusing more on our amazing Ca King Crab… he’s been HOME wayyyyy more often than what we have come to expect as our ‘normal’. Those little suckers live closer to the Harbor than other fish we catch, the gear is worked on an every other day (or so) schedule and well…. he’s just HERE all the dang time. And I mean that in the most loving way. And just to clarify, when I say ‘home’, I mean right here, inside the house. Like, right now for example: he is sitting less than 36 inches from my ear. Chewing ice. With the TV on… while I try to type this. Did I mention the ice?

So after making it to just short of 15 years of marriage, we are embarking on a new season where we are learning loads of  ‘new information’ about each other. Here’s a little sample:

  1. There can be only 1 Captain in charge at a time. We are both pretty sure who that should be.
  2. I am clearly more right, more often.
  3. Making ‘helpful suggestions’ could by some people, be felt as trying to exert control. And just to make sure that point is super clear, here are some things that not one single Captain of Her Home ever in the history of ever needs to be ‘helped’ with:

the ‘best’ location in the fridge for the butter (Really? THAT is the priority in this whole entire house filled up with 5 people and 2 dogs and a turtle and all of their respective crap? The proper location for the sticks of butter? Yes, I see the logic in that. Totally.)

having it explained that folding the laundry ‘right when the drier dings’ would keep the clothes from getting wrinkled (I have an idea. How about giving me some laundry tips after YOUR 8 gazillionth load of laundry? Thanks, that would be awesome.)

letting me know that the children could be ‘trained like that!’ (pretend someone who shall remain nameless is snapping their fingers right now) to clean their rooms, handle all of the house chores and go to bed quickly and quietly upon command if that same person were the one in charge of them all of the time (First, despite all your ‘my way or the highway’ banter,  your response to even the sparkle of a tear in your daughter’s eye is to sweep her up in hugs and take everyone out to ice cream. So you can drop the Master Po/General/Captain/El Jefe routine. We all know you are a total softy when it comes to the kids.  Second, I gave birth to them all. Period. Nothing else trumps that whole scene. And possibly a visual will help you to remember the gigantic babies you make. Just take a nice long gander at the next ELEVEN POUND Halibut you catch.  Yes, E.L.E.V.E.N. pounds)

On that note, I’m gonna go take a nap. Once you have them all Black Ops Ninja Green Beret Chore Commando trained, all the laundry is folded and the ever lovin’ butter is properly stored have one of them come wake me up.  By that time it should be pretty darn close to Swordfish Season. Snap, snap, snapitty snap.

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