Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Mysteriously Disappearing Dad Weekends

There are times I wish I was a bit more fastidious about record-keeping. Actually, at all fastidious would be nice. Time was, I uSersed to keep track of when the kids were with their father. I was, in all truthfulness, a wee bit fanatical about it. If he was 10 minutes early to pick them up, I'd jot it down. Late dropping them off by more than 10 minutes? That would be duly noted as well. Why? Well, why not? I was told by my attorney back then, to "keep records". And so records were kept.

For about a year or so, he was pretty good about taking the kids for "his" times.  The kids went without a fuss, at first. They'd hug me goodbye and I'd wave to them as they sped down the street and tried my hardest to not cry as the backs of their heads grew smaller and smaller and then, disappeared around the corner.

At first, those weekends were awful. As moms, we are so conditioned to chaos and noise and sheer BUSYNESS that to be faced with a silent house, and 48 hours of alone time is shocking, to say the least. But I am nothing if not adaptable, and soon I actually started looking forward to these little breaks twice a month.

I think things started disintegrating around the time Charlie had his troubles. He didn't go to his dad's house for a full year after that. And once he did start going again, it was sporadic. Molly followed suit, and over the past year or so, the two younger boys have been seeing less and less of their father.

I haven't had one of those chaos-free, kid-free weekends in so long. I can't remember the last time they were all over there, with their father, for more than a couple of hours. It's been at least three years.  

Do I miss those quiet, peaceful weekends? Those four days a month when I didn't have to schlep people around, didn't have to feed armies of children or fight for the remote?  

Yes. And, no.

Yes, because who wouldn't want just a few blessed hours of QUIET each week? I'm not a big enough martyr that I want to starve my soul that way. I need silence once in a while. Not long stretches of it, of course, because that's when I start talking to myself and my dog, but a few hours here and there are absolutely RECHARGING.  I remember those Me Weekends fondly. Catching up on my Netflix queue, sleeping alone (or sometimes, sleeping with someone other than two or three flailing kids). Ordering take-out and actually taking my time to eat it. Cleaning a bathroom and having it stay clean for HOURS. And the parties..oh I loved those first few hen parties. 

But...when the kids are here, I am whole. I may be crabby some of the time, may be harried, but I am complete when they are near.  When they're gone, I miss them. I miss laughing with Molly, debating with Charlie (because he's at that age where I am so utterly stupid-how I manage to breathe on my own, let alone get through a day without assistance is beyond him)...I miss hearing Henry and his friends and their ever-deepening voices as they whoop it up down in the mancave. I miss the Sunday morning donut-runs for the kids and whoever has slept over. I miss taking walks with William and Walter and discussing what he wants for his birthday this year (it's a toss up between a red eared slider turtle and a couple of XBOX games...I'm leaning towards the turtle).  

When they're gone, I miss being a mom.

For the past year, I haven't missed them much. They almost never go to their dad's house, not for the Tuesday/Thursday dinner nights, not for the every-other weekends. And it leaves me feeling uneasy. Confused.

I want them to see their dad. They NEED to see him, spend time with him. It's essential for them, and dare I say it's pretty darn essential for him, too. I encourage them to go. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, when I'm at work and the Dad Pick Up Time draws near, I'll start to feel my phone vibrating with texts from them. They don't want to go to dad's house. They start coming up with excuses. 

"I have too much homework"

"I'm hanging out with friends"

"I don't feel good"  and lately:

"I don't want to see him"

That last one always gets me. Hits me right in my gut. I'll admit here, that there is still some tiny shrewish part of me that gets a sick bolt of self-righteousness from this. Some vindictive bitchy Jenny who cackles "SEE, ASSHOLE? THIS IS WHAT I WARNED YOU ABOUT WHEN YOU FIRST LEFT!". But she is quickly silenced by the New And Improved Me. The Nice Me. The me who still remembers this man as the good dad he was, and maybe, still could be:  I see him mowing the front yard with a toddler several paces behind him pushing the Fisher Price Bubble Mower. I see him playing games with Charlie on the second-hand Nintendo GameCube. I see the kids running out to greet him as he pulled into the driveway after a day at work. 

I see these things and I start to hurt for him. Yes, I hurt for the man who hurt me so much. I cannot fathom what it must feel like to be him, to have these four kids out there in the universe and not have relationships with them. How awkward it must be when people find out he's the father to four older children, other kids besides his new one, and they start to ask him questions. Questions that he might not know how to answer. Names of teachers they've had, what his daughter got on her ACT, what days William has hockey this summer. What they like to do, what books they're reading. Who they hang out with.  Can you imagine not knowing these things about your kids?

There are other, less-generous reasons that I hurt, too. It hurts me, to my core, when I find myself handling crisis moments alone. When I check William's grades online and see that he's failing a class. When Charlie confesses to me that he's not feeling "right" and I'm so scared all over again.  That's when I wish they would spend more time with their father. Not so I wouldn't have to handle these and other issues that arise, but so I wouldn't have to handle them by myself. I'm not fantasizing here, either. I don't picture Big Daddy and me, huddled together, working out a plan to help our kids get through life's labyrinth. No. That's not going to happen in this lifetime.

But it would be nice if just once, or twice, or every other weekend, he was the one they went to when they needed to unload or confess or gripe.

I think he owes that to them. And to some degree, he owes that to me. We made these babies together, I was under the assumption that we'd both be in it for the long haul. To leave your wife, your marriage...that's one thing. To leave your kids? That's something entirely different.

This is when the confusion sets in, when I'm hurting for both of us, for ALL of us, and the hurt turns to anger and resentment. Do I remind him? Do I nudge him to take his kids, the way you nudge a slacker friend to take her turn in Words With Friends (yeah I KNOW...I'm in Ruzzle land though...I'm sorry!)...or do I just let him be, let this grown man make his own parenting choices while I trudge behind him with a broom and clean up whatever messes those choices make?  Part of me wants to demand that he take them, all of them. I want him to man up and get authoritative with these children. I want him to raise his voice with them, I want him to grow a set of big old brass balls and get with his kids. I want him to act like a dad.

But the other part of me sees that my kids don't want to go. They have their reasons, some of these have been shared with me, others are kept closer to their collective vests. The protective momma bear thinks, "They shouldn't have to go where they don't feel wanted, welcomed. Loved." That's when I suck it up, I put more gas in the car and get out my old-school giant paper calendar from OfficeMax to see who has to be where at what time.

I guess there really isn't a mystery here, is there? Children know more than we give them credit for knowing. Their feelings are just as big and just as real as ours.  They know where they want to be, they know where home is.

And as badly as I need or want that elusive, seductive tramp called "Alone Time", I know my kids need to feel at home even more.