I know people much more evolved than me. That’s a fact.
I have friends whose children live with their exes most of the time. Women who see their kids one, maybe two months out of the year. Women who brokered these agreements. Women who say, my child is happy in this arrangement. It’s a great opportunity, say, for him to live in Europe with his father and stay with me during summer holidays.
How do they do that?
It just feels so strange when the kids aren’t with me. At least I’m not lying on the floor crying. But that has happened.
Interestingly, it’s not that way for them. Seven-year-old Primo moves between the households smoothly, holding up his forehead to be kissed good-bye when he’s sitting in his dad’s car ready to go. Four-year-old Secundo feels the transitions and, therefore, so do we. But once he’s at the other household, he reports that he doesn’t even think of us.
In fact, Secundo says he doesn’t love us when he’s not with us.
I teach him that we love each other even when we are apart. That the bonds of love are strong and invisible, elastic enough to hold us even when we are not together. But it is always present, even when we don’t think of each other.
But I know what he means. In order to survive—and more—I really can’t let myself think about them when they’re not with me. And when I do, I can only think positive thoughts.
Like how we played in the rain yesterday, getting wet in a summer shower, running barefoot on the slippery tennis court, Secundo pretending he was skating, taking shelter under the umbrella of a shady maple tree. We sniffed the wet grass, they shrieked with excitement as they felt nature’s shower. We cycled home in the rain, reminding each other to ride slowly as our brakes were wet. At the front door we stripped down, our clothes wet and mud spattered. Then directly they hopped into a hot bath and played for half an hour while I drank a cup of tea and sliced the chocolate cake. Three pieces each later, we sat beneath a cozy blanket and read books. They played music and banged on the drums and sang at the top of their lungs until their dad came to pick them up.
And then the house was quiet again.
And this morning I’m picking myself up off the carpet and remembering that they are at home in both their homes. They have additional adults in their lives who love and care for them. They are their own persons, they live their own lives.
And I am over here, constantly assessing my thoughts and feelings. Repatterning where necessary. Being diligent and disciplined to seek out the places where we are separate, and where that separateness is connected.
