I’ve been a co-parent (with my ex-husband) to my 14-year-old son for 12 years and I’ve wanted to write an article about it for just as long. Only, every time I sit down to the business of actually writing this piece, it feels like the grand opus I’m not ready to tackle.
In the wake of my piece on my ho-hum attitude on Mother’s Day, followed by a piece on sadness, I attempted a 100-word story about co-parenting. It’s safe to say I could write ten thousand versions of this one. Here’s attempt one:
It’s when I fold the laundry, the questions grab me unsuspectingly and force me to conduct a brief retrospective life audit. “I don’t recognize these shirts. Did his dad buy them for him?” My son’s week, his life has been split in half for 12 of 14 years. Will I ever forgive myself for pursuing full-time happiness and co-time parenting? I’ll always wonder are his sheets soft enough at his dad’s house? Does he eat enough vegetables? Will he believe me when I tell him it wasn’t his fault? Will two halves ever be good enough as one?