Only now am I beginning to realize all the work she did for us

Last week my wife and I marked our 49th wedding anniversary with dinner at the restaurant where we’d celebrated her retirement from college teaching several years ago. That day I had raised a flute of sparkling Prosecco in a toast to Evelyn and said, “This is to thank you.” My voice broke, and I couldn’t find the words to list all my reasons to be grateful for the decades of work she had done. Her determination and faithfulness not only blessed hundreds of students and encouraged dozens of colleagues but also brought a paycheck that helped keep us financially afloat.

She had moved from very part-time to full-time teaching the year our daughter entered college. The increased income helped make it possible for us to foot the college tuition bills that came for the next eight years as both of our kids went away to school. After that, because she worked, we had some extra to sock away for the retirement we’re living now.

She gave herself to her work

But income was only a small part of what she contributed. She gave herself to her work. I remember many Sunday afternoons with her hunched over the dining room table, poring over a stack of student essays or term papers or projects. When summers brought a break from teaching, she usually gave herself the assignment of reading a new textbook or reviewing an old one, dividing the page counts into 13 parcels so she could complete her study during the time off.

Evelyn posed with two students on graduation day, May 2015.

But it was about so much more than the classroom. She spent long hours counseling students in her office. She sponsored floors in the dorm, and every year we hosted a living room full of young women for dinners Evelyn cooked at home for them. We went to basketball games and soccer matches and volleyball tournaments at the school, because her students would be there. We never got out of a shopping mall or department store on the weekends without bumping into a student or former student who greeted her warmly and with affection.

 She kept our household together

Meanwhile, she was the energy that kept our household together. She planned and cooked the meals, cleaned the house, filled and emptied the dishwasher, reorganized closets, sorted stuff into and out of storage bins, painted bedrooms, hung pictures, swept the garage, did all the laundry, and even helped with the lawnmowing.

She does none of that now. And as I’ve struggled to take up duties she handled without fanfare, I feel the weight of realizing how much I failed to appreciate her. When I told her “thank you” for the work she did as a college teacher, I had only begun to understand all she had given. As my eyes have been opened in the last couple of years, I’ve been unable to shake off a nagging sense of regret.

Put away the confetti

Not long ago, the New Yorker cartoon-a-day calendar on our counter showed a man pushing a sweeper in the living room. Above him is a thought bubble filled with people applauding him beneath confetti and a banner reading, “Ned Helped Out!”

I can identify with Ned. I felt so good about myself for volunteering to clean one half-bath most weeks, never mind the two full baths Evelyn handled along with everything else. I was making a contribution!

Perhaps younger men aren’t demonstrating such an oblivious state of self-centeredness. I see my son and son-in-law cooking, cleaning, and giving themselves to child-rearing. But the New Yorker cartoon prompts me to suspect the problem still exists in many corners.

My challenge to every younger husband and father is to put away the confetti and pick up the broom, the mop, and the dishrag. More than that, take a moment to sit back and appreciate the woman doing so much of the work around your place. Don’t wait till her spunk and spirit and smile are diminished to be grateful for all she’s been contributing to your life.  

I just took too much for granted—not only all my wife did, but all I had in the person she was. I could wish that every husband would be spared the remorse I feel because of my mistake.

Photos by Oliver Sherwin and No Revisions at Unsplash.com