There was one time, again while she was pregnant, the two of us and some friends were coming in from a night at the movies. These two dudes start walking up on us yelling. I tell everyone to get inside, and I go to see what their problem is. I barely get halfway toward the dude when I hear this fast-paced waddling behind me. I turn around, there she is. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Thought you could use some back up,” she said. The men apologized for yelling and moved on. This is the woman I am married to.

I woke up Sunday morning, at 9:30 a.m., needing to be at my friend’s house by 10.

“Alright, see you, honey,” I said, scrambling to put my shoes on and run out the door.
“Have fun,” she says, “by the way, I almost got into a bar fight last night.”

At this point, I realize that I’m going to be late to my friend’s house.

My sister is getting married next weekend. Which means this weekend was the bachelorette party. The ladies ended up going to a dance club. Among those accompanying my wife were not only my sister, but also two young ladies we’ve come to think of as our daughters. Well, the ladies were doing their thing, dancing and having fun, when a drunk guy comes up behind one of our “daughters,” pulling at her shirt like he had intentions of sticking his hand up it. My wife goes into, um, slightly over-protective mode and, well … shoves the guy into a wall.

“Back off,” she says in the same tone she asks me to pick up my underwear from the floor. Drunk guys dances off.

Ten minutes later, drunk guy dances his butt back over. Pawing on our friend then repeatedly trying to kiss her. Now you have to understand, the ones with the most clubbing experience, not to put too fine a point on things, have the last name Broaddus. So my wife plants the guy into the wall again and says “Don’t make me end you.” (Which I’m sure answers the question “what would Jesus do?” to my satisfaction). Drunk guy dances off.

Ten minutes later, drunk guy starts dancing back again. This time, my delicate flower of a bride cocks her fist and heads toward him. Apparently his friend realizes that my wife is not playing and steps between them with promises that they were about to leave the club for the evening.

That’s my down ass girl.

(It’s also why when people ask about how I can have a “con wife.” I point folks to my “con wife” directly who promptly reason why nothing will ever happen: “I don’t want Sally kicking my ass.”)

As I’ve said before, I am the facilitator for The Dwelling Place (for those having trouble finding the office of facilitator defined in the Bible, if you check the original Greek, the word we translate as facilitator comes from the word also translated loosely as “semi-meaningless title so that we don’t have to explain to church visitors why one of the church leaders writes scary stories”). That’s also because I take the passages describing what a pastor should be like quite seriously. It’s serious business, and I don’t think I’m there (or may ever be). So I don’t want that word strapped to me – or me giving the title a bad name with my antics. However, I think more pastor’s wives would do well to be like mine. I’m just saying.

P.S. Why My Boys are Exhausting

While my wife was off gallivanting this weekend, I was in charge of the boys. Now, you people have no idea what it’s like raising these two (or why we don’t want to have anymore). The great thing about having boys this close together in age is that they always have someone to play with (read: entertainment when daddy’s off writing). The downside is that they still have the last name Broaddus, meaning their names could be changed to “Co” and “Conspirator”. From an early age, it was pretty obvious that Reese was the brains and Malcolm was the muscle of their relationship – kind of mirroring me and my brother’s relationship. Everything is a scheme for Reese: it’s easier for him to scheme than to simply ask. Malcolm just loves the thrill (we’re talking about the escape artist. He can scale door frames like Spider-Man, since he was 3 and can master most mechanical objects after watching you do something once). My wife and I often hit mute on the television, since they haven’t mastered whispering, so we could hear them saying things like “Malcolm, you run in and distract them, then I can get the cookies.”

Which brings me to today.

We’re at BW-3, getting some chicken wings to go, and I give each of the boys a quarter to get a bubble gum ball. No bouncy balls, I immediately say. So I help Malcolm get his gum when I hear this click next to me. Reese has a ball.

“That’s it. You can’t obey so ball and gum are mine.” And I slip them into my pocket.

Ten minutes go by as we go about a restroom break and collecting our food. The boys are trotting off ahead of me when Reese suddenly trips Malcolm, who falls and starts crying. I scoop Malcolm into my arms and onto my shoulder where he immediately slumps like an exhausted teddy bear. We walk out of the restaurant and it I hadn’t have looked down at the food, I would never have seen the lithe arm snaking into my pocket.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Were you even hurt?”
“I, uh, feel much better.” Malcolm. Age 4. I think the next set of pictures of my boys should be mug shots. Just so I can get used to the image.

I am living my parents curse: “I hope you get sons just like you.”

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