Love Letter 1: To The Mama on Switch Day

I will be doing a new weekly series called "Love Letters" on smoreslife.blogspot.com. Welcome to the 1st edition. In each letter, I'll be writing to "someone" - that person may be you. It may be me. It may be both. But no matter whom I am writing to, I am writing from a place of my own limited personal experiences. It may be from a place of first hand experience, or it may not. I hope it touches you, but it may not. If you don't feel seen or heard in these love letters, kindly reach out to me. I'd love to hear about your own experience.

Love Letter Series: Number One

Dear Mom on Switch Day,

I know you're feeling more than one thing right now. I don't know what those feelings are. They may be pure agony, fear, and resentment. Or they may be all relief, gratitude, and hope. It depends on so many factors, and I cannot assume any of them about you. If your situation is anything like mine, it is a mix of both. I know that feeling of equally dreading and anxiously anticipating pick up time. When you'll say goodbye. For a day or two or three, or for a week or more. I just want you to know, I see you. I feel you in those moments.

The moments when you watch your children morph into their transition time selves. Is that resiliency? Or a trauma response? Can it be both? Do they need more of you, or less of you? Do you acknowledge their confusion and fear, again? Do you encourage their excitement and hope, again?

I know those moments, leading up to the switch, when you ache for alone time to think. You can make all the food, and clean the house, and make all the calls and do all the work and mow the lawn and kiss the skinned up knees and read the stories and take the temperatures and do.all.the.things but you just.need.a.second.to.think. I know how you can't wait to be able to do that. And how you dread, being able to do that. 

The other moments that you both hope and both dread, the ones where he may not show up. Or he may be late. How there is some relief there. And how there is also anger, and resentment, and sadness. The moments when you look over into your children's eyes and wonder if they're sad enough, or too sad. And is there such a thing, as a measure on their grief?

I know the moments when they get, perhaps unexpected, extended time with him. And you're so grateful - for them, and for you. And you're so worried - for them. And for you. 

I know how you feel when you wait to cry until the door is shut, them on the other side. I know how you feel when you see that they see the tears in your eyes before they go. It's too late, and that's ok. It's ok to cry, you tell them. It's ok to cry, I'm telling you. I know how you feel when you go weeks or months or years without crying at goodbyes. Grateful, confused, happy, or is it numb? I know how you judge those feelings, and maybe you shouldn't.

I am with you, when you walk past their empty rooms. Their empty beds. Maybe there are remnants of your life together strewn across their floor - books, and pencils, and clothes. Or, maybe you have your shit figured out that week and their rooms are clean. Too clean. They need -to-be-more-lived-in clean. I am with you when you stand next to their beds and consider lying down, just for a moment. Because it will still smell like them.

I'm there when you snap out of it and judge yourself - too harshly - for the grief you feel, still, looking at the empty beds.

And those moments, of almost mania, when you start to ponder what you'll do with your time. Will you rest? Will you exercise? Will you reach out to a friend, or maybe more? Will you do chores, or run errands, or binge Netflix? Will you spend an hour scrolling, because you've forgotten what life is without noise?

Those moments when you start to remember who you are, and through your fear, you feel liberated too. 

I'm there when you run through the moments of your time together, the good and the bad, and you feel guilty for your impatience, and proud of your accomplishments. I know the moments when you ache for them to return, and the moments when you want to stop time because you just need to think one more alone thought this weekend, please.

The moments when you begin your time together, and the moments when your time together is coming to an end, temporarily and confusingly...when you all know, this is your time. And the appreciation for it is there, and the grief is there, and sometimes one of you feels appreciation and one of you feels grief and you work to manage your own feelings while helping them with theirs, and it's just a lot.

It's a lot.

I want you to know, it's a lot, and I know how much it is. It is a lot to carry, the weight of this home, not broken, but put back together. Your children know they are loved, because they have parents, or at least one parent, who choose peace for them. And this time you're about to embark on? It is ok to love it. It is ok to hate it. But please don't feel shame around it - there is no shame in following Truth, in needing a break, in getting more of a break than some parents and a lot less than others. There is no shame in guiding your children through sometimes tough transitions, and watching them form resilient little lives of Love.

I don't know what your switch day looks like, or if you even have the gift/burden of one. Regardless, you are loved.

You

are

loved.

All my love,

E.