Today was my first born’s last first day of school and my youngest’s first day of 8th grade. It is the first time, since becoming a mom seventeen years ago, that I have missed the beginning of a new school year. My husband of 25 years and I are in the first month of a 90-Day Therapeutic Separation. I wasn’t home when the kids woke up this morning.
Since the end of July, I’ve been living as a part-time single parent in a comfortably-outfitted, 2-bedroom sublet in the Wilds-of-Suburbia, USA. It’s a nice place, high ceilings, great morning light, friendly neighbors. It’s a few miles away from the house where my kids are. Where this morning, they made their own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, as they’ll do every Thursday and Friday morning this fall, when they’re not with me. It’s what we’ve worked out, though I’m not sure the kids see this aspect of the agreement as particularly therapeutic for anyone.
We’re good people. We believed in love. But somewhere along the way we forgot to water the houseplants, to leave a note on the bedside table, to kiss each other good night. What had worked in our marriage, or what we thought had worked, was to have accepted this nice, blindfolded life. Kids were happy; healthy. Friday night fire pits in the cul-de-sac were filled with craft beer and delivery pizza. And, as long as you didn’t look too closely–as long as you didn’t squint–everything seemed kind of perfect. I guess I squinted.
After years of sharing living quarters but not sharing lives, I was reminded by someone other than my husband what it felt like to be noticed, feminine, beautiful. And now, here I am and there they are.
The “therapeutic” part of the separation means that we’re supposed to be working on things, figuring it all out, coming back together. But, what happens if I discover that I like the version of me that lives in this apartment alone (part-time) and single parents (part-time) better than the one who stands at the kitchen sink, invisible?
In these twenty-seven days thus far, I’ve begun to recognize myself — that person that used to be me, before I gave that all up to be his better half; their mom. I like to have time to write, to contemplate, and I concur with Lucy Kaplansky’s lyric, “If I’m going to be alone, I’d rather be by myself.”
This morning my girls got themselves up, packed their own lunches, their instruments, sat on the stoop for the annual first-day photo. I wasn’t there. But, they knew that I was nearby, learning how to be happy, how to love, how to take care, not just others, but also myself. And that’s a great lesson, even when your mom isn’t there on the first day of school.
mindful musings 