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Parenting
The 50/50 Life After Divorce
by Emily Collins
Updated: Aug. 16, 2019
Originally Published: Sep. 14, 2015
As I handed my ID to the gatekeeper at the entrance to the beer garden, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Here I was, stepping into a sanctuary free from the demands of parenthood. I had arrived at a vibrant street food festival in downtown Seattle, where a myriad of food trucks and pop-up vendors offered everything from savory Russian dumplings to sweet Hawaiian malasadas. Surrounding me were blocks filled with exquisite local crafts, and at the center, a lush green lawn adorned with umbrella-covered tables, bag toss games, and a lively DJ spinning upbeat tracks.
The weather was perfect—a gentle breeze accompanied by warm sunshine as the gray clouds had cleared. This entire delightful event was nestled in one of Seattle’s trendiest neighborhoods, buzzing with young, stylish professionals employed by innovative companies like Amazon and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. It was the kind of outing I would have cherished with my husband and kids, had we still been a unit.
Children were plentiful at the festival. I carefully maneuvered around a toddler throwing a tantrum as he awaited his gourmet waffles, while his father, using a calm tone likely reserved for public situations, tried to soothe him. I skillfully avoided the energetic moms pushing jogging strollers and even passed by a nearby park where young parents juggled food and kids, one scarfing down a meal while the other chased after a little one on the playground.
In all honesty, I felt grateful to be enjoying this experience without kids. Dressed in a lovely, delicate outfit and having taken the time to do my hair and makeup, I reveled in the freedom to explore menus and browse handmade t-shirts without interruptions. I could take my time, savoring my surroundings and reflecting on how much more enjoyable this event was without kids in tow. As a mother, I couldn’t help but think about my children, who were spending time with their dad at a beach house in Oregon—a place I had never seen and hadn’t even known they were visiting until it was too late.
We had recently adopted a 50/50 parenting arrangement, a structured plan designed for families with high conflict. This arrangement minimizes parental interaction to shield the children from ongoing tensions, a decision enforced by a judge after dissecting our 8-and-a-half-year marriage. Under this new schedule, there are weeks when I don’t see my kids for five whole days. Communication is limited; I’ve had to fight just to secure two brief phone calls during that time, with the norm being just one.
This means that for five days, I am free—free to wander the city, enjoy romantic evenings, attend yoga classes, explore trendy eateries, lounge in my pajamas, and even embark on spontaneous weekend trips. While it’s a sweet taste of freedom, it also carries a bitter edge.
This wasn’t the life I envisioned. I had dreamt of a loving marriage and a complete family, meticulously planning for that future until the moment I realized I had to let go of that dream. I don’t regret my choice; over the past year and a half, my ex-husband’s behavior has confirmed that my decision was wise. Remaining in that marriage would have stifled my spirit, leaving me feeling like a mere shell of myself—going through the motions without joy.
I’ve had to embrace the reality of not seeing my children every day or being part of their most significant memories. I’ve let go of sharing their achievements and milestones with their other parent, the only person who understands how deeply I care. I’ve traded stability for the tranquility of an urban beer garden on a sunny afternoon, relishing lazy Sundays in my pajamas, and holding onto the hope of being loved again. I’ve released the life I had planned, choosing instead to live a life of value—because I’m of no use to anyone if I’m drowning in despair.
Still, it stings to watch a father hoist his son onto his shoulders, turning to his wife as she lovingly feeds him gnocchi, or to see a mother tenderly stroke her baby’s hair nestled in a sling while her husband pushes a sleeping toddler in a stroller, all while sharing smiles over a sweet handmade doll.
So, as I settle into my kid-free beer garden, I choose gratitude. This is my consolation prize, my default life—a life I’ve sacrificed so much for, and one that I won’t take for granted. I appreciate its existence.
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