10 Signs You’re a Coach’s Wife (& it’s June)

It’s that time of year again. It’s interviewing season for my husband, the coach. Tension is high; money is low. And while we know we’ll be perfectly settled in a new community by the end of the summer, the transition may make us lose our minds.

In the spirit of supporting my coach and trying new things: Here’s to…
The Summer of U-Haul! 
(Read in George Costanza’s voice)

10 signs you’re a coach’s wife (and it’s June):


Packing in color-coded tubs. Boxes are for amateurs.


You’re a more efficient packer than the military.


As you organize your kids’ closets, you realize their old clothes represent a timeline of all the schools your husband has coached at. Orange for baby clothes, green for toddler, gold for big kid sizes…


You have a moving sale without actually knowing where you’re moving to. Remember that time I advertised our “Moving sale” on Facebook and our phones were blowing up for days afterwards? You’ll find yourself explaining repeatedly, “Yes, I can assure you we’re moving. No, I don’t know where we’re going.” Coach: “You couldn’t have just said garage sale?”


You stopped hanging curtains about 3 houses ago.


In essence, all coaching families are nondenominational in their faith. Thinking about the big move has you wondering what kind of church you’ll try. After all, you’ve been whatever denomination was an option at the time. We’ve met the most devout SouthernBaptistMethodistChurchofChristCatholics out there.

Praise Jesus that He is constant when little else seems to be!


Renting your home for years and years makes perfect sense. What is this job security you speak of?


You have that one special tub of team shirts from every school you’ve been a part of. You know your husband is a veteran in the business when you have to start a second tub.


When you come across old friends, you have to ask for a quick reminder of where they’re from. You’re a coach’s wife. You make friends easily, but keeping them straight is more difficult.


You and your coach debate memories. Example–
Me: Remember when Brennan was little, and he used to lick your leg?
Coach: Oh yeah, what was that about? That was in Rockwall, wasn’t it?
Me: No, that must’ve been Breckenridge. He was a toddler.
Coach: No, I think it was in the Lubbock house.
And the conversation goes on and on like this until we’re both so confused we give up and agree that where the memory happened isn’t important. The fact that we can still laugh about it is.


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