“Wow, you’re so fortunate to have every other weekend to yourself! I’d give anything for some time away from these kids; they’re exhausting!”
This sentiment echoes frequently among my friends, all of whom are still married to their children’s other parent. They return home together each evening. Her partner shares the bed with her, while their kids often join them. Every night, she gets to enjoy the scent of her child’s hair, prepare family meals, and receive hugs from little hands that are often messy. Each evening, she has the chance to look into their eyes and discern if they’re okay—or if they’re not and need to talk. Every night.
In contrast, I see my children half the time; the other half, they spend with their father. This 50/50 custody arrangement means we collaborate for the children’s well-being. While we aren’t perfect, we manage to navigate our schedules to accommodate each other. Both of us work outside the home and must maintain two households, which translates to duplicate appliances, rooms, and yes, two lives that are only partially shared.
Every time I say goodbye to them as they head off with their dad, my heart feels heavy. I instantly start to worry: what if they catch a cold? What if they have nightmares? What if they discover a new friend or argue with one? What if they feel lonely? I don’t know. For 50% of the time, I have no visibility into their lives. I can only hope and pray that they are laughing and happy.
When they return, they rush into my arms, bursting with stories. “Mom, I aced my spelling test! I scraped my knee! I solved my math problems correctly! Oh, and my library book is at your place.” And there it is—the phrase “your house,” not “our house.” They have two homes: mine and their dad’s.
As they chatter, I reflect on my wedding day filled with dreams and what I once believed was everlasting love. I embrace them tightly, my heart swelling with joy, and I fight back tears—not because they are home, but because I know this moment will only last until their next departure. The duality of their lives weighs on me. My children look at me with wide eyes and a mischievous grin, asking, “Are those happy tears or sad tears?” I always reply, “Happy tears.” They giggle, as if it’s our special secret that my emotions occasionally overflow.
While I sit next to a friend who complains about her husband, children, and household duties, I can’t help but think, “You are so lucky.”
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In summary, 50/50 custody is often perceived as a fortunate arrangement, but it encompasses its own emotional complexities and challenges. The duality of living in two places brings both joy and heartache, making it essential to navigate this experience with care.
Keyphrase: 50/50 custody
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