Mondays are always bittersweet. As I’m getting the kids out the door and we’re fighting about lunches and clothes and agendas and well… why we fight so much, there is this nagging reminder that I won’t see them for a week. Monday is our trade day, they go to their dads. And although I often see them at some point because someone forgets something or because of football etc, there is still this hollow place that reminds me I am separated from my kids.
Whoa whoa whoa…. don’t for one moment think I also don’t love a break from the whining, fighting, Fortnite addicted monsters! I can sit, think and even get something written down when it’s my week off to work and my exes to have the kids.
What I have always been aware of though is that this freedom to sit, nap, write (or go to Scotland) comes with a cost. My break, my legitimate rest, my ability to run off to Scotland for two weeks comes with a cost. A little hollow heart, a little lump in my throat, and a reminder that although I love them with my whole heart, sometimes parents need breaks, and selfishly I am taking one in 7 more sleeps.
24 hours a day I am a parent, 24 hours a day I am a provider for my kids, but 24 hours a day I am also a woman in need of respite and recovery.
I see my married and coupled friends, and sometimes feel guilty I am afforded time “off” from the wee crazies, wishing them respite as well. But then I remember the cost of this “freedom” and I wouldn’t wish my journey on anyone.
Thank you @belgianmomma @tamijog and Anna and @calvin.65c for all chipping in, compromising, so I can get a break away soon. I love you, and wouldn’t want my life to ever be without any of you.