For the past three years I have admitted to loving being a part time Mom. Sure I missed my kids at times, but I needed the break and time for myself so desperately that I also looked forward to my time away from them. I viewed it as my time at the gas tank and if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t make it through the week.
For the past couple of months, I haven’t looked forward to my weekends away from my kids as much as I used to. In fact, I even started to cry after dropping them at their dads. Now that my kids are older (6 and 9 years old), they’re able to do some things for themselves and I feel as if I can be more of myself around them. Babies and toddlers are cute, but I don’t remember much about when my kids were that age because it just felt like one task after another. In the past year I’ve caught myself thinking, “Wow, I’m actually listening to my kids rather than partly listening and partly cooking. Or half way listening and half way thinking about all of the crap I have to do.”
The same goes for the visual sense, where for the first time I feel as if I’m actually seeing my kids. I notice how tall my son is and how my daughter hardly has any of her toddler chub anymore and how both of them are gorgeous and think, “Where the hell have I been for the past six years? How have I not soaked all of this in before?”
I don’t beat myself up about this. It’s more of a marveling than a guilt-ridden notion. I now know that I am better suited to raise children than babies. I was not only exhausted by the sleepless nights and nursing marathons, I was struggling with my marriage, trying to curb my work ambitions and convince myself I was happy when I knew I wasn’t. Most of my energy was consumed by denying myself and my desires, I didn’t have a lot left for frolicking on the playground. And let’s be honest, does anyone really like going to the playground? Sure, the first 200 times is tolerable, but after that, you’re tired of being rained on and cold while pushing your kid on the swing.
Now, I can play games with my kids that are actually interesting. In the trash went Candy Land and out came Clue. We can converse rather than me listening to Pokemon discussions. OK, they still have a lot of those, but interspersed are also some interesting conversations where I’m not only engaged, I learn something. I can read a book alongside them, explain myself to them in a way they understand, and show them who their mom is besides the person who cooks for them, drives them places and makes them do their chores. I can be me, not just their caretaker.
Three years ago I only felt I could truly be me and relax when the kids were gone. Now that I can do that in their presence, I don’t want them to leave for two and a half days. I only shared these thoughts and feelings with my boyfriend once the kids were gone. I didn’t want to cry in front of them and cause them to feel sad for me. For the most part, they seemed to joyfully transition from house to house and that’s what I wanted. I suffered enough guilt around the divorce, having the kids resent or cry during the going back and forth between houses would have made me feel all the worse.
This weekend, my son seemed melancholy on the day he was to go to his dad’s. When I asked him about it, he claimed to be tired and “sick of not being able to taste things.” He’d had a fever and cold for several days, so his reasons were valid enough. But I know my son and I know emotionally not feeling well versus physically not feeling well.
“I’m sorry you’re sick,” I said. “It’s really been dragging on and that’s never fun. If you think of anything else that’s bothering you or making you sad will you tell me?”
He said yes and went upstairs to play with his sister. A minute later he came back down and said, “I thought of something else. I don’t like transition days, I miss you.” I wrapped my arms around him and we both started crying.
“Transition days make me sad too,” I said. “And I’m so proud of you for being able to tell me that. You are so good at understanding your feelings, it’s really amazing.” We cried some more and tried to come up with some ideas. “You can always call me, would that help?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said.
“And you can come visit me at my office after school if you want. Would that help?”
“Yeah, but I’m still sad.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Maybe it’s just sad and we can’t change that,” he said, proving to be wiser than his years once again.
“You might be right.”
We pondered that for a moment and I remembered a conversation I had with a friend of mine who was lamenting that fact that her fisherman boyfriend was going out to sea once again. “Just as we get close and in the groove of things, he has to go back to Alaska. It sucks.”
“At least you miss him,” I said. “I know a lot of women who can’t wait for their husbands to go on their next business trip.”
I relayed a similar message to my son, telling him that I enjoy being with him so much and had such a good time with him this week, that it makes me miss him all the more.
He smiled at this idea, but it may have been a bit abstract for him. It didn’t matter; I was mainly processing it for myself. Yes, I didn’t like crying after my kids left, but in actuality it was a good problem to have. It meant that I had gotten myself to a place where I could really enjoy, and even miss them. This new problem showed me that so many of my other problems weren’t weighing me down anymore. And with that realization I started viewing missing my kids as part problem, part blessing.

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards and is now available via ebook. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She teaches writing and coaches other writers on-line, via the phone and in person in Ballard.