When I married my husband, who was an enlisted sailor in the US Navy, I was warned about frequent moves, long separations, and unpredictable schedules. I believed we could handle it.
What I was less sure of was when, if ever, to have children. Twice in the early years of our marriage, I got pregnant unexpectedly. Both times ended in miscarriage.
The second happened while my husband was on shore duty — one of the rare periods when he was home more consistently. For a few months after I miscarried, I let myself dream about what having kids might look like with my husband coming home for dinner, reading bedtime stories, and being there for birthdays and holidays.
Shore duty doesn’t last forever, though. He eventually returned to sea duty and was away for six months at a time.
I would go weeks without hearing his voice. I had to let him know over email when I had pneumonia, when the dog got cancer, and when the washing machine was broken. In the thick of it, I was grateful I wasn’t also solo parenting.
So we postponed parenthood to an indefinite future when things would be easier. We waited almost 20 years. It wasn’t the easiest decision, but it was the right one for us.
For nearly two decades, we built a life together, just the 2 of us
We moved from Virginia to South Carolina to Rhode Island and back, managed countless deployments, and weathered hurricanes, family losses, and national tragedies apart.
I learned how to handle everything alone, to be both self-sufficient and deeply in love with someone who was gone more often than he was home.
We had a full, happy life — then I turned 40 and my biological clock said it was now or never.
The third miscarriage nearly broke me
Over the years, my husband worked his way up, went to college, earned his commission, and became an officer — a transition that improved his work schedule and our financial situation.
It finally seemed possible to plan a pregnancy around his schedule. However, my third miscarriage nearly broke me and I remember thinking, “That’s it, I’ll never be a mother.”
Then, I rallied, researched, and found a doctor who listened to my concerns. I quickly got pregnant again. The best part, though, was that my husband was home during that difficult time.
In my last trimester, he was unexpectedly deployed for eight months
I had an easy pregnancy but I spent those final months terrified I’d go into labor alone. My husband came home the day before I delivered and stayed for two weeks — a blur of baby snuggles and sleepless nights.
Then he was gone again, two days before Christmas, and I was a new mom without her partner, just like so many military spouses before me.
When my husband finally came home, our son was 5 months old, and I was the happiest and most exhausted I had ever been.
By the time our second son arrived, things were different
My husband was home for the birth, and though he still had obligations, he was never gone for more than a few weeks.
During his last year in the Navy, he juggled his military career, family life, and a career-changing program to become a teacher. It was a grueling schedule, but we made it work, knowing that retirement was around the corner.
Now, a decade into civilian life, our teenage sons barely remember their father’s years in uniform.
They know he was in the Navy, but to them, he’s just “Papa” — the guy who helps with homework and drives them to school because he teaches there.
That’s exactly what I wanted for them.
Looking back, I’m grateful for the life we had while my husband was in the Navy, but I’m even more grateful for what we have now: a life where goodbyes aren’t constant; a life where my husband is here every day, watching our kids grow up; a life where I don’t have to ask, “Will you be home for Christmas?”
