I’m happy to be the wife of a police officer. Most of the time, I don’t mind that he misses dinner to take a drunk guy to jail or resuscitate an ailing person. I generally don’t mind getting calls all hours of the night for him to go out with his police dog either. And, for the most part, I’ve learned to adapt to the super-wacky schedule.

I do not like, however, that he’s trained to drive like he’s going to an emergency all the time. We have a twelve-passenger van. It’s not the same as a squad car at all. When we are all together in the van, I often ask to “drive like an old man, not a police officer.”

He and I were recently discussing how often I ride with my eyes closed. (It’s more than I care to admit.) Honestly, he’s a very good driver. It’s just that –without the lights and sirens — the other cars don’t know to expect him. It can be a bit much.

My mom recently sent me this photo, and it sort of sums up my experience as a passenger to my police officer husband.