The DHX: The Doughtie Houses Exchange

By Katherine Shirek Doughtie

I have just returned from being out on the road for a couple of weeks with the theatre company I work for, Opera A La Carte. I’ve been their technical director and stage manager for the past 24 years (obviously I’ve been doing it since I was 2). My time on the road usually consists of 17 hour days, four hours a night of sleep (when I’m lucky) and more stress than you could possibly imagine. For some reason, I thrive on it… at least while on the road. I soar on adrenaline and then come back and crash with an absolute, bludgeoning finality. For at least a week after a tour, I live in a perpetual state of bone-crushing fatigue, while my aching adrenals reset themselves and I manage to relax enough to sleep for longer than five hours a night.

This tour was no different. After a week of truck breakdowns due to the diesel fuel turning into jelly in the zero-degree weather, problematic technical difficulties and a non-stop schedule of shows, I flew back last Monday and returned to work on Tuesday. Each day was an obstacle course of trying to avoid hitting the wall while either driving or working. I was slowly catching up on the deluge of work that had been accumulating… when I picked up my messages after a meeting.

One of them was one of those calls that every mother dreads: the front office woman at my youngest son’s school. It wasn’t an emergency, she started off — which, really, was enough to get my heart beating faster regardless of what came next — but there’d been an incident involving a rock and Jack’s hand. It was something she thought should be seen by a doctor. She’d called my home, my cell, etc.

I immediately started gathering up piles of work to take home with me, even as I continued to listen to the last message. This one was from Jill, saying that she had gotten the call as well and was on her way to pick up Jack. As I got to the parking lot, I called her back and learned she was almost at the school. While I was on the freeway, I called again and spoke to Jack directly.

She got to the doctor’s office with him before I could get there from work. I walked into the examination room just as the doctor did. Jack’s hand was hideously swollen and he was buzzing with his own adrenaline rush, but he was contained and being treated. By the time I got there the only thing left to do was to sit there and talk him down from his nervousness, and work with everyone on how to proceed with getting x-rays and treating the injury.

The three of us went up to the imaging lab together (after a necessary stop at Winchells for a donut for Jack and a carb fix for Jill and me). Then Jill and I gossiped and caught up while Jack was getting his hand x-rayed. Luckily, nothing was fractured or broken.

And the whole time this is happening, I’m thinking how incredibly lucky I am to live in a family with two moms. I mean, really — we ALL know that there’s work and responsibility enough for six, but having two is better than being the only one on call. In this situation, we were able to perfectly tag team… and the child was the one who benefitted. If Jill and I had been “normal” co-parents, there easily could have been issues about whose night it was, who should pick him up, and then a hostile trade-off when we happened to collide. As it was we worked well together, didn’t have to pull G out of his west side office, and Jack was taken care of quickly and with a minumum of discomfort for everyone.

A little cooperation goes a long way. We were all there for each other, no matter what our roles or history. It made me see, once again, how interrelated we all are and how much I cherish what we have built together. Two moms really are better than one, when everyone is on the same side.