T-Day
Transition day sucks. It’s the day we hate each other. I resent them for ruining my peace. They resent me for being their change.
It’s the day the kids come to my house after they’ve spent five days with their dad.
The misery only lasts a couple of hours, so long as I recognize it quickly. My reflex time has improved with time. Still, the dissonance sneaks up on me.
We’re on a 2-2-5-5. If you’re not divorced, you don’t know what that means. If you are, I see you. It means two days mom, two days dad, five days mom, five days dad. Repeat. It sounds rather brutal when you break it down that way. It kind of is. But it’s also magical, at least for the adults in the equation.
There are only so many ways to split seven in half. If you’re not divorced, a seven-day week suits you fine. If you are, you’d prefer one with six or eight.
It’s after the five days with their dad that transition day sucks the hardest.
New home, new rules. I name it. Orienting us in a sea of back and forth, I state why we feel the way we do. “Today is transition day and it’s hard for all of us. We’re getting used to one another again,” I might say.
Once it’s named, the turn-around begins.
At my house, I toss them into the shower. “Wash off and begin anew,” I tell them. There’s nothing a shower can’t fix. Dear reader, remember this. You’ll need it someday.
If the day is really bad like it was last week, I voice my distaste, “I hate things right now and you do too.” I tell them that I need a minute to collect myself (in reality, I need thousands).
While only half-composed, I insist that we shake shit up by doing something unexpected. This time I take them to mom’s, their grandmother’s, grave, “To remember what’s important,” I tell them. There’s complaining and foot-stomping, but we’re on the right path. Peace is on the horizon.
I know how difficult two homes can be. I packed my world into a duffle bag and brought it back and forth from my mom’s house to my dad’s, relearning the rules each time I landed. The upside to two homes is variety. Two birthdays, two holidays, and a break from the parent that’s bothering you, because one is always bothering you. The downsides are obvious.
My kids don’t travel with duffle bags the way I did. Just their backpacks and their dirty, disheveled selves. In our divorce, the lines are blurry by design. Clothes and belongings flow from house to house. We don’t care who bought it. If the kids want it, it travels with them. If someone forgot something, we drop it off or pick it up. The kids don’t know how good they have it. They don’t care, and it’s not their job to.
Transition day sucks less when I name it. Everything sucks less when we name it. Dear reader, remember this. You’ll need it someday.