“Wow, you’re so fortunate to have every other weekend free. I’d give anything for a break from these kids; they’re exhausting me!”
I hear this sentiment from friends—every single one of them. They are still with the partners they had their children with, returning to the same home every night. Their husbands share the bed with them, and the kids come in for snuggles. Each night, they get to breathe in the scent of their children, prepare family dinners, and enjoy the comfort of hugs, even when sticky hands and dirty faces are involved. Each evening, they can look into their kids’ eyes, gauge their well-being, and be present if there’s a need for conversation. Every night, without fail.
In contrast, I share my children 50% of the time. For half of their lives, they are with their father. We navigate our co-parenting arrangement with a focus on their needs. While we may not be perfect, we strive to be better than most, adjusting our schedules when necessary. Both of us work outside the home and juggle the demands of supporting two households. This means two sets of appliances, two living rooms, and yes, two bedrooms. Each of our homes sits partially empty for half the time.
Every time I bid them farewell as they leave with their dad, my heart feels heavy. My arms seem leaden, dragging me down and leaving me immobile. Anxiety creeps in almost immediately—what if they catch a cold? What if they have nightmares? What if they experience a fantastic day, or a terrible one? What if they find new friends or face loneliness? I can’t know these things. Fifty percent of the time, I am left wondering and hoping they are safe, happy, and laughing. Ultimately, they return home, bursting into my arms with stories and excitement.
“Guess what, Mom! I aced my spelling test! Guess what, Mom! I scraped my knee and it bled! Guess what, Mom! I got my math right today! Mom, my library book is at your place!” And there it is—“your place.” Not “our place,” but “your place.” They have two homes now—mine and their dad’s.
As they chatter away, I nod, smile, and embrace them tightly. My heart fills with joy, yet I can’t help but remember the promises made on my wedding day, the love I thought would last forever. I hug them, feeling a rush of emotions, fighting back tears—not because they are home, but because they will only be with me temporarily. I cry for the duality of their lives. They look at me, wide-eyed, mischievous grins on their faces, asking, “Are those happy tears or sad tears?” I always respond with, “Happy tears.” They giggle, as if we share a secret about my emotional outbursts.
As I sit next to my friend, listening to her vent about her husband and children, I think to myself, “Wow, you are so lucky.”
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Summary:
Navigating a 50/50 custody arrangement can often be misunderstood as a fortunate situation. While it allows for shared parenting, it also comes with emotional challenges and the weight of separation. Parents in such arrangements must cope with the duality of their children’s lives, experiencing joy in reunions mixed with sadness during farewells. Ultimately, the perception of luck in parenting varies greatly based on individual circumstances.