Handing over my children to their father for his “visitation” seemed like such a low class thing for us to do. He should have been in our home raising them with me, instead of the questionable apartment complex where he was taking them. Just the word, ‘visitation’, had an incarcerated ring to it.
I hadn’t accepted that I had to share my children. The first time you have to do this you are left with a mixed bag of emotions. Even though I really needed the break (I had my children 80% or more of the time), I didn’t want it. True, it made running my errands much faster, but until I had time to process my new role, I found it very confusing and lonely. I missed my children terribly. The house was quiet and I was used to taking care of them. Having time for me was something I wasn’t accustomed to yet.
You go through a morphing stage until you sort out this new freedom. When I came to my resolve, I found it was wonderful to have this time to recharge my batteries and get everything done for the week ahead. I’d find that I could start and finish a small project, I could go out on a date, or I could read a book. So, by 8 o’clock Sunday night, I had just enough ‘me’ time and was ready to receive my children with new energy, and of course, cookies.
Information provided by:
Tomi Tuel, Author of 101 Things I Learned After My Divorce