“Wow, you’re so fortunate to have every other weekend free. I would trade anything for a break from these kids; they are exhausting!”
I hear this sentiment frequently from my friends—actually, from all my friends. They are still married to the partners with whom they had children. They return home together every night, sharing the same space.
Her husband still shares the bed with her, while the kids snuggle in. Each evening, she enjoys the familiar scent of her baby’s hair, prepares family dinners, and receives hugs from little hands that are often dirty and faces that are unwashed. Each night, she can look into their eyes, knowing they are okay, or if not, that they need to talk. Every single night.
In my case, I share custody of my children 50% of the time; the other half, they are with their father. We manage our schedules well for the sake of the kids. While we are not perfect, I believe we are more effective than most co-parents. We adapt our time as needed, balancing work commitments while supporting two separate households. This arrangement means we each have duplicate appliances, from blenders to washing machines, and yes, two sets of bedrooms, living rooms, and dining areas. Each of our homes sits half empty.
Every time I bid farewell to my children, my heart feels heavy. I experience a sense of loss, as if my limbs are weighted down, making it hard to move. Almost instantly, worries flood my mind: What if they catch a cold? What if they have nightmares? What if their day is wonderful? What if they feel lonely? I can’t know. Fifty percent of the time, I am left in uncertainty. All I can do is hope and pray that they are happy and safe, and thankfully, they usually are.
When they return home, they dash into my arms, chattering excitedly like little monkeys. “Guess what, Mom? I aced my spelling test! Guess what, Mom? I scraped my knee! Guess what, Mom? I got my math right! Oh, and my library book is at your house!” And there it is—“your house.” Not “our house,” but “your house.” They have two homes: mine and their dad’s.
As they chatter, I smile, hug them, nod, and console them, all the while reflecting on my wedding day—a day filled with hope and what I thought would be everlasting love. I pull them close, feeling my heart swell with joy, and I fight back tears. Not because they are home, but because they will only be with me until it’s time to leave again. I cry for the fact that their lives are divided between two households. They look up at me with wide eyes and ask, “Are those happy tears or sad tears?” I always respond with “Happy tears.” They giggle, as if it’s our little secret that sometimes my emotions escape me.
So, as I listen to my friend lament about her husband, her children, and her home, I think to myself, “Wow, you are so lucky.”
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In summary, navigating a 50/50 custody arrangement can be an emotional journey, filled with both joy and sorrow. While some may see it as a fortunate break, the reality of shared parenting involves deep feelings of loss and worry, reminding us that every family has its own unique challenges.