I have not lived with my children for three and a half years. This was never part of some master plan and I would have never have seen this scenario playing out for so long, and with no real end in sight. But here we are and somehow it’s working.
Just over four years ago my marriage was ending but we tried to give it a good shot. Ok, to be fair, he tried to give it a good shot, but my head was already out the door and I don’t know that he possibly could have done anything, at that time, to bring me back. I think when you’re done you’re done; you know it at a visceral level and your emotions need to catch up. But anyhow, we attempted to co-habituate and frankly, that was a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. We are not really fighters (well, I’m not) but when emotions run high, and feelings are hurt, and there is a lot of sadness and anger; attempting to live under one roof and be “single” is a recipe for tension and hostility. Someone had to go.
I have always been the primary caregiver. I was the cook and the cleaner and the “call-in-to-school” parent. I was the go to the park, “cut your gross nails”, and the “did you bring gloves?” parent. So how could I leave? Surely they would starve and live in squalor and be dirty orphans who failed out of school and didn’t have clean underwear!
Their dad uses the house for a big part of his business and, as I spent my whole life being moved around from house to house, I really didn’t want that for my kids. My kids have been in two homes; our first one for 13 years and this current one for 6 (now). However, I cannot afford a place that has three bedrooms and their dad can’t afford that house on his own, so the compromise was me in a condo with a roommate and him in the house with the kids, and we share the house cost (among some other tits and tats that are not pertinent to this current point).
So anyway, I moved out and for a while it was very hard. I found myself crying while out running and feeling concerned about what they had for dinner and when their sheets were last washed and all that stuff. The house was a mess for the first year, while that Old Dog was learning new tricks and finding his bearings (and discovering how much his wife actually did…*smirk). But the kids learned to do their own laundry and take a bit more responsibility. I got ridiculous texts at all hours complaining about how the kids didn’t take out the recycling (of their own free will…haha!) and how they leave dishes everywhere and how the litter box apparently does not clean itself.
There was a mountain of a learning curve! I felt anger and sadness and SO MUCH GUILT. I felt bad for my ex (but also vindicated to have him finally see what I meant when I said I did “everything”). I felt bad for my kids to have their mom no longer there (but truly part of that was the cushion of me “just doing it” and them never having to actually do stuff). I felt embarrassed to tell people that I didn’t live with my kids because I felt like it implied that I was an unfit parent, or that I’d somehow “lost” my kids or didn’t want to live with them.
That first summer, my son got very sick and spent some weeks in hospital. His dad had to be the parent to administer medication via IV for weeks once he was home. That freaked me out. My daughter started junior high and I was missing it! I missed first day of school moments and day to day dramas. I didn’t know what appropriate attire they were wearing on cold days or if they missed buses or didn’t get to bed til late, or if they ate breakfast or packed lunches.
I got afternoon talks and nice dinners over at my place. I got taking them to appointments and texting them goodnight, and sending them bitmojis to be annoying (because they pretend its annoying, but its love!)
And time went on and we hit a grove. I stopped crying as much the day after they were over. I stopped worrying if they were living off frozen waffels and grilled cheese (although they might be). I felt frustration with all I was missing, but still got to be the one to go get tampons and bring them for deodorant, and tell them to cut their gross nails. I got to send home leftovers and go take them to places and have dates with them.
As time went by I had a new layer of guilt because, yes, dad got all of the day to day; and rich moments of funny comments and stupid stuff….but he also got the day to day garbage and frustration…and funny comments and stupid stuff. My son had parties and my daughter missed her bus. My son left dishes that were his friends (and therefore “not his” *eye roll). My daughter left laundry in the machine for days and probably couldn’t tell you where the litter box for her “baby-kitten-sweetheart-angel” is even located (*head shake).
I got to live with my friend and then my boyfriend and have a clean and tidy house at all times (seriously, all times! *que choir). I got to have intentional time with my kids. Deep conversations and laughter. Give advice and feed them meals and take them places. Share a sitcom with my daughter that we only watch when together. I got to be the fun parent now! I got to have them at my best and not be freaking out at them because I just cleaned that! I am still the “call-the-school parent”. And the appointment parent. But not the “no, you can’t have 50 people over!” parent.
My kids may not realize it yet, but their teen years have been a lot more free and fun with Dad as the house mom. I am decidedly not fun. I don’t love noise and clutter, and I am not big on other people’s kids (sorry) and lots of chaos. (How do I have friends again?) My son got to have parties because his dad was literally like “Oh, apparently he’s having a party” and some kid actually moved in last year (and left last weekend) and the initial message I got about that was “I think Andre lives here now”. (I’m not even joking!)
Those kids may not get quinoa salad and homemade muffins with Dad, but mom sure as hell wouldn’t have lived in “the party house” and had a squatter move in. Mom would have nagged about their rooms or been on them about all sorts of personal grooming things. Mom would have been a friggin basket case about a dirty bathroom or kitchen and how “you’d better not be leaving your shoes all over the place!” and how “this cat isn’t even mine and that litter box is not my duty!” (Which, who am I kidding, it would totally have been my duty. Pets! So many pets!)
Now things are smooth. I don’t currently know when or if I’ll ever even live with my kids again. We have no end date or real plan. My son is technically an adult and drives his father crazy (often by basically being the exact same as him *smirk) and my daughter is…well, my daughter is a delight…but perhaps she is that way because I don’t live with her, and I get all the best parts and she doesn’t get nagged and hassled by her mother who is far far less easy going than her, and her dad actually lets her be gross and is much more easy going and cares less about the nit-picky things than I do.
My kids seem happy and adjusted and they have had a cool normalcy of one home and one bedroom; and parents who love each other and get along, but live separately and do not fight. They aren’t starving and are only living in very partial squalor (*Ha). They have had to become more self sufficient and that’s been a good thing. I actually asked my teen daughter if she wanted me to cut her meat (recently!) and I was nearly dying to put sun block on my 18 year old son (in public!) just weeks ago. It’s a problem. They don’t know the independence they have gained by not having their “over watering” mother be in the home every day. I would probably even make them exercise! (Ugh, mom!)
Periscopecake 