You do what’s best for your kids, even when it hurts

When I say my life was a mess 20 years ago, or a disaster, because it was in my eyes, I mean I was completely disorganized, stressed out, and unmoored. I had planned this … life; this Disney fairytale where TheEx and I had 3 kids, lived in our cozy little Zaymoor Colonial in Bergen County, worked, and had big family gatherings for holidays.

I had been forced to admit that life wasn’t going to work out. Even though I was the one leaving, I still felt heartbroken. I felt shattered, and the fact that I hadn’t planned where I would be going to after I left meant I had no way of even starting to pick up the pieces.

Also, I didn’t have a job, which, for me, is a disaster. Even before I became a non-custodial mom, I defined myself in part by my career. I had quit my old job as a proposal writer in New York City on the (bad) advice of my lawyer, who advised if I was working outside the home, I could lose even joint custody.

Yeah…not smart. A job would have been an anchor point.

So, yeah, back then my life – new apartment with windows I learned after I signed the lease didn’t lock, noisy neighbors living next door, no job, hastily packed boxes of my old life and random bits of new Ikea furniture scattered about – was a disaster.

TheEx, on the other hand, had a job, making more money than I ever could as a writer, had the house because I couldn’t afford to buy him out of it, and was heartbroken, but also angry.

…and he could afford a better lawyer, and a custody battle.

We were in our old bedroom on a Wednesday, 1 month after I filed for divorce. I was packing up my clothes while we discussed the financial settlement, how we would break up holidays so Joey could see both of us at Christmas, whose CDs were whose, who wanted the wedding china; who would take the stoneware vs. the Correlleware –

–the stuff you hate to need to figure out when you end a marriage —

…when the subject of custody came up. We had been trying split-week custody for the last month. Joey would live with me Sunday afternoon to Wednesday afternoon, and with his Dad Wednesday night to Sunday morning.

“You take residential custody,” I said quietly, staring down at my hands folding a blouse, feeling my heart start to fall to the pit of my stomach as my entire body tensed up, like it was being asked to do something it was incapable of doing, had no choice but to do.

“Why the change?” my (still then future ex) husband asked.

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That afternoon, before I drove him to his Dad’s, Joey was riding his red and blue big wheel in the back driveway of my apartment while I hung laundry on the line.

“Mommy!” Joey called just as I was fastening a sheet to the line.

I rushed over to my 4 year old son to find he’d had an accident. The 2nd one that week, and the 5th that month on my watch, despite his having been potty trained since 3, and my asking him every hour if he needed to go to the bathroom.

The look in my son’s eyes showed how stressed he was.

I scooped my son up onto my hip, soaked shorts and all and smiled at him. “I’ve got you. Ready to clean up and head over to Daddy’s?”

Joey nodded.

“Do you want to live with Daddy all the time and I’ll come see you every day?”

Joey looked down, frowned, and then slowly nodded.

I smiled, hugged him tightly, and carried him into the bathroom. “Then that’s what you’ll do. You live with Daddy. I’ll come see you every day, and you can sleep over every other weekend. How does that sound?”

My son stopped tugging off his wet clothes, visibly relaxed, and smiled. “Can we watch Star Wars?”

“Of course, honey.” I ran the bath water, squirted in some Mr. Bubbles, tested the water to make ure it wasn’t too hot or too cold, and plunked him down in the tub.

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I remember that day; that moment with the yellow sun streaming, Joey riding his blue Big Wheel with the big red tire, the clothespin in my hand. I remember hearing his call, seeing what happened, and knowing.

You do what’s best for your kids, even when it kills you, and kids know. Kids know when something isn’t right. They know where they belong. They let you know what’s best for them.

In this case, best for both of us as it turned out, but it took me a long time to learn that.

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My phone beeps. It’s my ex, texting me a picture of Joey holding up his new video game.

I smile. Back to the t-shirt.

To be continued…