Since my son Liam was two years old, I’ve packed Goldfish crackers and chocolate milk (for him), poured oatmeal into a Ziploc bag (for the ducks), and headed down to the pond at the Civic Center.
Eleven years, a baby sister, and one divorce later — I’m still taking my teen and his little sister (who thinks she’s a teen) to feed the ducks twice a month.
Last week, I incredulously picked up an overpriced tub of store-brand old-fashioned oats and these two thoughts crossed my mind:
1.) How fancy the ducks would be feasting that day.
2.) How grateful I felt to afford a $7.99 canister of plain oats (on top of everything else) so my kids and I could continue making memories feeding the ducks at the local library.
It’s a tradition — a tradition I was able to hang on to despite divorcing their dad. And something as simple as feeding ducks together continues to be a morale booster for my kids and me. It’s a chance for them to be kids and reconnect with a familiar part of their life. They aren’t thinking about packing their stuff up and spending a week at their dad’s the next day; they are lost in the carefree moments at the duck pond, throwing what’s left at the bottom of the oatmeal canister in each other’s hair.
. . .
My kids left for school the next morning and were off to their dad’s house after that. So, as usual, I went about my day, distracting myself with an extra long workday and trying not to think about how much I’d miss them.
I got up the following day, shuffled to the bathroom before my morning coffee, and spotted one single oat flake embedded into the fluffy bathroom rug.
My kids had showered the night before and remnants from their oatmeal fight fell from their sweet-smelling heads as they stepped into the shower.
No one ever warns you about these moments of stillness — where you think the (oatmeal) dust has settled and even though the ache from missing your kids never (ever) goes away — you seem to manage work and the rest of your life a little better than you used to.
Until one morning, you see oatmeal on the bathroom rug and remember it will be another five days before you see their heart-stirring faces again.
. . .
Writing while inundated with heartache feels impossible, I know. I’m not going to sit here and tell you ‘it will pass’ because that’s horseshit; there is no way out of these bittersweet moments.
So, breathe — embrace the light-minded moments with your kids and write about the rest when they’re gone for five days.
Then, at the very least, you’ll have a tender story to tell and inevitably connect with others going through the same experience.
Remember the good times and write to get through the rest.
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This post was previously published on Age of Empathy.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
What Does Being in Love and Loving Someone Really Mean? | My 9-Year-Old Accidentally Explained Why His Mom Divorced Me | The One Thing Men Want More Than Sex | The Internal Struggle Men Battle in Silence |
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