Monday already? Does it really have to be? We had a great weekend, and it flew by. The kids were with us, and it warmed up to beautiful, sunny afternoons, perfect for monkey-in-the-middle, football, and tackling Gary in the backyard, with all of us piling up on top of him and trying to find his tickle spots before he found too many of ours.
Somehow one evening we ended up watching bull-riding on TV. Bear declared solemnly, “Someday I’m going to ride a bull.”
His older brother looked at him like he was crazy and offered up words of wisdom from his many years of experience: “I have some advice for you. Don’t get killed.”
Bear nodded and explained, “Oh, I’m going to wait until I’m about 30.” As if turning 30 offers unlimited protection from raging bulls…?
We were operated on by pint-sized doctors wielding plastic doctor kits, given many shots, told our temperatures hovered around 30 degrees (or 8 million degrees, depending on the doctor…that’s why it’s always good to get a second opinion); became impromptu dance partners in the living room, in the car, anywhere the kids could sing or bust a move; and squeezed as much love, hugs, and laughs into a short weekend that we could.
The downside of a good weekend is the tears when we drop them off, when they are not ready to leave their father yet. I leave every drop-off convinced that every other weekend is a horrible arrangement for children; too much instability, too much time in between their lives with the non-custodial parent, too much “I know this is going to end soon” even when they are enjoying their weekend with their father, that nagging dark cloud that ticks, ticks, ticks down to Sunday evening and means they won’t spend significant time with him again for two weeks.
The kids did nothing to cause or deserve the divorce, but every two weeks they pay for it, over and over again.