A momentary thought of joining the rest of the softball team for pizza and beer after the game turns into guilt. Noticing a man at the pool and thinking next weekend turns into guilt. Wondering if rock climbing still happens on Thursdays turns into guilt. Remembering the days of watching the news while reading blogs before showering and dressing for work turns into guilt. Considering the selection of frozen dinners turns into guilt. Thinking about where they are going? Off the charts.
There are four more breakfasts together before we load the car and make the drive to meet Donkey. We will hug and kiss, and then the kids will get in Donkey’s truck to finish the drive back to life with him.
There are four more lunches together before nap time is a single affair, and not a cuddled family snuggled under the blankets, hiding from the sun and giggling until yawns close eyes and sweet slumber blankets the room.
There are four more dinners together before I retire the stove and use the dining room table for storage. We will eat and laugh and talk of our days. We will set the table together and clean up together and decide together what to do together.
There are four more nights of mommy whispered twice by two kids standing bedside in the dark of night.
I got used to them being in my home again. They do not live with me. I must again get used to them being not in my home. I will not walk through the door to screaming joy. It will be dark, and quiet. As I fight the pain and the anger, I am pounded again and again with the horrific memories of my time with Donkey. I am remembering things I wish not to remember. I am under constant attack. This is a triggering week. This is our last week together. It hurts. Life will return, as will the quiet and the solitude.
It is what it is. I am no different from every other other parent out there. I absolutely fucking hate it.