I wake up on Wednesdays with a pit in my stomach. I hear the alarm go off and I immediately become tearful. I hate Wednesdays.
Wednesday is the day that my kids go to their dad’s house until either Friday (which I can barely tolerate) or until Monday (which feels beyond awful). After divorce, there is no perfect custody arrangement, and this one was the product of careful deliberation and collaboration. I know that it’s in the best interests of my kids. My attempts at rationalisation, however, do nothing to temper the devastating heartbreak that I experience every Wednesday morning.
On Wednesday mornings I feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. I prepare pancakes and cornbread while crying in the kitchen. I hold the tears back when I wake the girls up and get them ready for the school bus. I know that Wednesdays are hard for them too. I hold them tight at the bus stop and soon as they get onto the 6:43am bus, I give them a big smile and a happy wave. I then walk back to my car and I just sob.
For five minutes, I feel shattered. I feel panicked when I think about my kids not coming home at the end of the day. I wonder if they will be ok in my absence. I feel like the worst mother in the world. And I feel like I don’t know who I am if they are not around.