It took awhile, but I learned a valuable lesson this weekend: in the end, I can't be there.This, I surmised after a long weekend with my kids... sort of a "weekend on, weekend off" deal I'm trying to work out with Anne. It seems to be going well, despite the friction from Anne who peppers my efforts with vocal passive aggression and inflexibility. ("Oh, I want to go..." she announces when the kids tell her our Sunday plans, leading my 3-year-old to invite her along.)
Our weekend began on Saturday morning, long before I arrived to pick Sam and Josie up, with a heated phone call between their mom and I. She shouted angry words at me, accusations, abandonment, anything to make me feel small. I have to admit, for awhile it worked.
I stumbled briefly, mostly because of my unclear plans -- a few days earlier she had made comments opposing a Daddy Weekend, arguing, saying the kids wanted both their parents to take them to the apple orchard. (...I'm sure they came up with that on their own.) Saturday, it went about-face. Daddy Weekend on... no other plans. Logic spiraling. Head games. Frustration.
To worsen matters, Josie didn't want a sleepover at my house so I was relegated to sleep on the couch as Anne had "plans to go out" and could not be expected home for the kids. More games. I did my best, acting unaffected, unrattled by this curveball designed to thwart my confidence. "You look like a cowardly defeated man!" I was told Saturday morning.
But in reality, I was very strong.
I showed up and dressed the kids as Anne left for breakfast with friends. The weekend went beautifully, with lots of outdoor activities for the kids and lots of time to watch them laugh and smile.
But still, hurtful feelings crept into my head. "Abandoner!"
I fought those feelings for two days. Feeling the urgency to prove her wrong. Fighting the twisted feeling of guilt rising inside me in my moments of weakness.
But, I *was* there: laughing with them, feeding them, doing their laundry, teaching them, supporting their emotions, kissing their playground injuries, helping them with homework.
It all came to me in one moment... two actually. First, was a heartbreaker: Josie waiting anxiously all night for mom to come home so she could ask for the Guinea Pig we saw at Petco, only to be told "no. never." in one swift cut.
Desperate, painful crying and sadness.
I tried. "Don't get your hopes up," I had warned her on the car ride home, but a 7-year-old with a soft heart for cute, cuddly animals knows no restraint. As the tears flowed like I haven't seen, in this instant I realized I couldn't have helped her. I couldn't shield her from this letdown. No matter how, I wouldn't make a difference in this little girl's heartbreak. As much as I wanted to. As much as I felt it was my job to.
All I could do was listen to her cry.
This morning, a passing school bus offered me the same resolution. Initially, feelings of pain ran through me, of compassion, of worrying about my kids on the school bus. Would they be bullied? Would they be safe? How can I protect them from the world they're driving into?
Then, it suddenly dawned on me: there was nothing I could do. I can't ride the bus everyday. I can only talk to them about life, and about hardness, and hope to be there for them if things don't work out -- be it in-person or on the phone. Consistently as I am.
It's a lesson I learn everyday.
I am a good dad. I'll never abandon that post.
(heart)
