I have a sister wife. Don’t worry, I’m not a polygamist. We share everything but husbands and clothes. Lizzie is supermodel skinny and has a fabulous fashion sense, so while I suppose I could wear her maternity clothes, she would look like MC Hammer in my “skinny” jeans.
A sister wife, as defined by me, is a friend as close as a sister who will get in the trenches of motherhood with you and get down and dirty. Cultivating a sister wife takes time.
My husband and I have moved nine times in the last 12 years and in my experience, you really have to know someone for 18 months to two years before it’s okay to call them crying hysterically about what a bad day you’re having, or ask them to come and pick you and your kids up off the side of the road when your car breaks down.
When we lived in Savannah, Ga., Emma was only five-months-old and she contracted a stomach virus so horrendous she had to be hospitalized. We had just moved to Savannah so we had no friends and I was in the hospital with Emma and I needed somewhere to stash Aubrey, who was in the throes of the “terrible twos.”
I was forced by circumstances beyond my control to call the only person I had had more than one conversation with, Gena. Gena was merely an acquaintance from a women’s Bible study group, she had two boys the same ages as my daughters and graciously agreed to take Aubrey while we were in the hospital with Emma. One day turned into almost three as Zeb and I caught the virus and literally threw up in every parking lot between the University hospital and Aubrey’s preschool on Wilmington Island.
The sister wife relationship with Gena was going to be hit or miss. I knew as I drove to her house to retrieve Aubrey that I had either made a friend for life, or Child Protective Services would be waiting on me when I pulled up in her driveway. As luck would have it, I had made a friend for life.
Lizzie and I became friends in college, back when we only had one baby between the two of us and could actually have a conversation without a chorus of children screaming, “MOMMA!”
I was working full-time in the ER as a nurse and Lizzie was pregnant with her second child.
She volunteered to keep Aubrey on a Saturday while I was working, and I distinctly remember being amazed when she decided she would take both of the girls to an Easter egg hunt by herself. She was going to wrangle TWO whole children, all by herself. I was amazed, at her strength, her determination and her courage.
Today Lizzie and I look back on those days and laugh about how easy we had it. Today our biggest problem with juggling each other’s kids is that neither one of us have a car that will hold four car seats and two booster seats. We are in the market for a 15-passenger van or a short bus.
Moving to Greenwood meant I was going to be very close to my best friend but I had no idea how having a sister wife would revolutionize my life. It means I don’t always have to drag my baby out of the bed to sit in the carpool line, and I always have someone to call should I end up in the hospital with one of my children.
Having a sister wife means I don’t have to get sunburned by myself this summer, as I sit outside watching my kids jump through the sprinkler and eat popsicles. It also means I can actually take a bathroom break while we are at the pool without dragging three kids with me.
Having a sister wife means I have a partner in crime as well as well as a partner in prayer. So when my 3-year-old escape artist can’t stay in the house long enough for me to write or get anything useful done, it means I have a friend who will show up like Superwoman and whisk her away to run errands so that I’m not forced to call Child Protective Services on myself.
nRobin O’Bryant is a mother to three daughters, author and new Greenwood resident. She will be writing a weekly column about her family’s new life in our community. Read more at her blog at www.robinschicks.com or e-mail her at zebandrobin@hotmail.com.
